


Live While I Breathe

by Batbirdies



Series: Emotional Motion Sickness [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne needs therapy, Cassandra Cain is Black Bat, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gratuitous use of italics, Hurt Some Comfort, I’m sorry, Jason is hardly in this but Bruce thinks about him a lot, Stephanie Brown is Batgirl, Stephanie Brown is a badass, Things Get Better, Tim also has literally no lines I realized....but he’s still here, barely any fluff, he’s trying, so I think that counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-05 11:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batbirdies/pseuds/Batbirdies
Summary: Bruce Wayne needed therapy, but there were always reasons not to go. Things that seemed important. Thatwereimportant.He never expected Stephanie Brown to be the one to change his perspective.





	1. I’m Facing a Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Bruce Wayne was a difficult man with a difficult life. The ups and downs had left their mark, he couldn’t deny that. But it was becoming increasingly apparent that the negative effects they’d had on him were leaching out into the rest of his life, affecting his family, his children. He didn’t want to be this way, uncommunicative and unpleasant to be around. He didn’t want to push down flashbacks and muscle his way through trauma feeling miserable and guilty.
> 
> But it had been this way for so long, Bruce had begrudgingly accepted his incompetence when it came to expressing himself. He didn’t see a way around the issues as they stood. He just did what he knew how to and tried his best, even if he knew it wasn’t enough. People had tried to talk him into counseling before but there had always been reasons not to, reasons that seemed important, that _were_ important.
> 
> Of all the people in his life, he never expected Stephanie Brown to be the one to change his perspective.
> 
> ___________________________________________________________________________
> 
> For notes on the canon in this fic, as well as any trigger warnings, see End Notes

Bruce knew, even with the length of time that he had been Batman, with the amount of things he had faced in his life, before and after putting on the cowl, that he couldn’t handle everything. That there were things that would always throw him off balance and send him careening into motion he couldn’t control. 

Somehow though, those moments always caught him off guard.

The night was an eventful one. They, (Tim rather), had cracked the coded messages of an illegal weapons operation, allowing them to set up a sting. Bruce had called Commissioner Gordon in so there was some police force involved but they had decided to keep the number low and allow Batman and his “colleagues” to do the majority of the work. 

Not least of all because Jim still harbored concerns about who his men aligned themselves with. The particular group they were after was pervasive, large and sprawling through the city enough to surprise both Tim and Bruce, who’d been following the case for weeks. It would take months to draw out the stragglers throughout the city. So in place of the GCPD, the entire team was set up for the take down.

Things ran smoothly enough, there was a minimal amount of infighting amongst his sons and not one of the criminals caught wind of them early. The take down came with very little fuss beyond vehement swearing in an impressive number of languages. Gordon’s select team was already loading their arrests into the available vehicles, calling in new cars as the night was winding down and no early warnings could be given to tip off their prey.

It was when they were doing the easy part that things went sideways. 

Bruce had them all taking inventory of the weapons, another check to be sure no dirty cops could get away with anything. There was a lot more than they had initially expected even, shipping containers lined the docks stuffed to the gills with assault rifles and ammo. 

The work was tedious and Bruce counted himself lucky that all members of the team had even stuck around for this part. He divided them into pairs as they began, Batgirl and Black Bat, Nightwing and Red Robin. Robin had been at his side to begin with but Jim had wanted to discuss the follow up being done by the police and so Bruce had sent him to work with Red Hood. They were just wrapping up their conversation when something filtered into his ear above the normal chatter of the night and the still spitting anger of the criminals hanging around in cuffs and zip ties.

It was Red Hoods voice, loud above the rest, _“Fuck! Robin!”_ And before Bruce had time to even turn around a concussive sound shook the docks hard enough to make him stumble, warmth blooming at the back of his neck. Batman could only watch as Jim’s face went slack in shock and everything around them was illuminated in yellow and orange light. 

He was familiar with explosions, much more than he would like, and it was that familiarity that was his undoing.

Batman turned around, feeling oddly disconnected from the moment, like time was moving in slow motion, like his feet were dragging through sand as he stepped forward, began running toward the source of the explosion. Smoke was billowing out from one of the shipping containers closest to the water, it was tucked back behind the one that Batgirl and Black Bat had been checking. He was absently aware of other people yelling, of Nightwing running at his side, but he didn’t hear them, didn’t have any idea what they were all shouting to each other.

There were still flames visible through the smoke, low to the ground and Bruce wanted to scream but his throat felt so dry and clogged he wasn’t sure he even had enough breath to do so. The flames were dying quickly, sputtering out from a lack of remaining fuel and leaving nothing but destruction behind. 

There was shrapnel scattered everywhere. 

His vision was tunneling. 

He felt blood on his hands, told himself it wasn’t real, and moved.

Batman’s hands were shaking as he reached the container, eyes scanning quickly but carefully, mentally counting his breaths to keep them steady, a growing dread in the pit of his stomach that was waiting to see a destroyed Robin suit, torn to shreds. The phantom feeling of small, broken ribs pressed against his hands as he immediately began tearing through piles of torn and twisted metal. He saw blood on his gauntlets and stopped, frozen, numbness seeping through his limbs and leaving nothing but a tingling sensation behind because he wasn’t- he wasn’t sure if it was real or in his head for an instant. But then he finally registered the dull pulse of pain in his palm and realized it was his own blood, Batman had pierced his glove on a sharp edge of shrapnel.

But his sons were still not there in front of him.

He was alone in the desert.

He shook his head, swallowed convulsively, looked around. He wasn’t alone, Batgirl and Black Bat were standing back, Black Bat clearly holding a staying hand to her friends arm, Red Robin was speaking frantically into his com, Nightwing was just behind him, scanning as well.

The noise of the explosion was so loud all of their ears were likely ringing, but Batman slowed his breathing, listened as well as he could, finding nothing to be seen and finally - finally - _there!_ He heard a cough, a cut off curse and then a high, childish voice _“Get off.”_ A pained grunt.

Bruce was moving before he realized it, rocketing to the gap between two containers one over from the blast where he found them, tucked into the space and crouched low to the ground, mostly protected by the walls of bent up but whole metal that had already been emptied and catalogued. Jason’s much larger form was partially slumped over Damian, long arms confining his younger son, yellow cape wrapped awkwardly around his hands as he attempted to shove the older boy away from him. 

Bruce saw two mirror images, shredded costumes, blood, limp arms and legs, slack expressions. He felt the almost identical weights of two different bodies, held in his helpless arms and the thundering in his chest was physically painful. Enough to take his breath away entirely.

_“Hood, Robin, Report!”_ His words came out as a snarl, the only possible way to force them from his mouth in the guttural growl of Batman. He made his limbs move, squeezed between the containers and grabbed hold of Red Hood’s - Jason’s - arms where they still were not letting go of Damian, hauled him to his feet in order to free his younger son. His grip was too tight, but he couldn’t seem to loosen it.

Robin scrambled up and slipped out from between him and the two identical containers, and inexplicably, Bruce panicked.

“Robin!” He barked and the boy froze, “stay there.” Nightwing was at the boy’s side instantly and Red Hood still stood there, listing to the side, breathing harshly, not responding, and Batman _shook_ him. “Hood, report.” His voice was hoarse, nearly cracking and he barely suppressed the choked whine that wanted to follow it.

_“B.”_ He heard from behind him, “Give him some spa-”

_“Do not tell me what to do.”_ Batman snapped, practically spat, his jaw was so tight it hurt and he couldn’t spare even a moment of guilt for speaking so harshly.

“Batman,” It was Robin, then, “he is fine, we were not caught in the blast-”

“I don’t care-” He could feel himself losing control of the situation, of his own head. He had to get a grip. He knew how to compartmentalize, he was good at it. So why did it feel so impossible?

Abruptly, Hood shuddered in his grasp, pulled away with a sharp intake of breath and slapped Bruce’s hands away.

“Hands off old man.” He scoffed but the words came out uneven, breathy, and Batman didn’t miss the way he leaned on the container next to them for support for just a moment.

_“What happened?”_ He could hear just how furious he sounded but it was like listening to someone else speak.

“What do you fucking think, Batman?” He backed away and Bruce took a single step forward before he nearly stumbled, torn because he wanted to follow but he couldn’t leave Damian. “You shouldn’t be surprised, explosions are kinda my thing.” And Bruce didn’t flinch, but it was only because the numbness was seeping back into his limbs. “See to your kid.” He jutted out his chin, gesturing behind Batman to where he knew Damian stood with Dick. Jason took another step back, shaking out his limbs, his voice came steadier with his next words. “Think this party’s gotten a little too exciting for me tonight.” And Bruce knew what that meant and the idea was accompanied by another swell of _panic._

“Come back to the cave-“

“Nope.” He popped the p, continued slipping backwards, further into the shadows where Bruce could see less and less, even with the night vision in his lenses. “Thinking I’m gonna head home instead.”

“Hood-”

“Tell the kid to be more fucking careful next time.” Bruce could hear Damian protesting that it was not his fault while simultaneously registering the slight tremor still in Jason’s voice. Bruce’s chest felt tight, pressed flat, he was concerned about flashbacks, about what all of the last five minutes could be doing to Jason’s head if this was what it was doing to his own. But again he couldn’t speak. His mouth was dry and his stomach burned with displeasure as he scanned his sons form in the dark, looking for some hidden injury but seeing none. Hood continued to slip back through the dark, face inscrutable through the helmet until he had disappeared completely. 

Bruce’s whole body trembled. He was barely holding back some sort of episode. 

It took every ounce of his self control to run through a set of breathing exercises. He couldn’t be like this in the field, he was going to be a danger to everyone there if he couldn’t get himself together. But he just stood there for a moment, watching the dark, looking for any sign that Jason might still be there, hanging back to observe like he sometimes would if he was too wary to interact with the rest of them. It was too difficult, with his mind scattered the way it was, flashes of memory still slipping through, overlaying on top of the reality before him.

The helpless anxiety in his stomach wouldn’t be quelled, not with Jason leaving, but the other source of the issue stood just a few feet behind him, flanked by Nightwing and a growing gathering of his other children. He spun, suppressing the terror and marching back out from between the containers.

He found Damian standing, facing him, Nightwing kneeling behind him, both hands on his shoulders while he murmured something in his ear, expression serious, face angling up to Bruce as he appeared in front of them.

He saw Damian, laid out on the ground, suit a mess of blood and gore, yellow cape draped over his face like some mockery of a funeral shroud.

“What. Happened.” He needed answers. Needed to understand so that he could somehow take action, measures to prevent this. He needed plans, something to focus on other than what could have happened.

“It was not my fault-”

“That is not what I asked!”

“B,” Nightwing’s tone was scolding, “the shipment was rigged to blow if it was opened without a key. Nobody knew. Oracle is looking into it now, she doesn’t think there are any more like it, it was a one off, she thinks it was meant to be reserved from the rest, not meant to be unloaded yet. She’s researching possible other buyers now.”

That was not what he wanted to hear.

“You were supposed to check for traps before opening each shipment.” He was breathing hard, he shouldn’t even be talking about it. Bruce wanted his son home. He wanted all of them home.

“We did!” Damian insisted, his entire frame strung so tight he was shaking. His jaw was set, he looked as furious as Bruce had ever seen him. “We checked-”

“Then how did this-” Nightwing held out a hand, gripped his arm, and he realized abruptly that he had moved much closer to them, was looming above them, staring down at them both, Nightwing still kneeling there, glaring up at him while Robin steadfastly stared at his feet, fists clenched and trembling. Bruce saw those same fists, those same green gloves, limp, falling uselessly to the side as he lifted his son off the ground.

There was a scuffle behind them both and Bruce spared the briefest glance to see Black Bat physically restraining Batgirl, arms wrapped around her waist and over her arms, pinning them in place as she whispered furiously in her ear. Red Robin stood to the side, slumped, posture unsure, uneasy.

“You know as well as anyone B that things are getting more and more sophisticated every day.” Dick’s voice snapped him back. “They missed it, they both did, and any of the rest of us would have too. You need to calm down.”

None of it was comforting in the least but it was the last comment that sent him past his limit. Bruce’s jaw clicked shut. He couldn't do this. He couldn't have this conversation, shouldn’t be, even. He could see that he was frightening Damian, that Dick was angry with him, that Stephanie would have already thrown a punch if Cass wasn’t there to stop her.

Dick was right, he wasn’t helping.

He couldn't have this conversation now. Batman could not face the idea that if Red Hood had not reacted as quickly as he had that both of them, both of the Robins he had already lost, could have been lost again. Bruce could not deal with the idea that he could have lost both _sons_ again. The anxiety, the unadulterated fear was still rolling in his stomach, only made worse by the fact that one of them was missing entirely. The only thing that was helping was the clear sight of Damian standing before him, whole and mostly unharmed. 

Bruce swallowed, didn’t speak for a moment.

“Patrol is over.” He finally growled out. “I want everyone home.” Dick made a face, Damian sputtered.

“I am perfectly capable of continuing! This is nothing beyond property damage! You are being overly dramatic-”

_“Enough!”_ Both Dick and Damian flinched at his volume, and even following the blast that left his ears ringing the echo off the metal walls surrounding them was painful.

“Get to the batmobile. Not another word.” He sounded furious. He knew he did, knew he was handling the situation about as poorly as possible but couldn’t seem to stop. His whole body was stiff and he stared at Damian, trying to imprint the moving image of him turning on his heel to march back to the entrance to the docks. Tried to force his brain to believe that both of his sons were alive and well so that it would stop shoving these horrific images to the forefront of his mind.

Dick stood as Damian brushed past him, gave Bruce a look, jaw tight, but didn’t say a word as he turned to follow.

Bruce looked to the other three, feeling dazed, he was going to have to put the batmobile on auto, he didn’t trust himself to drive.

“Everyone go home, we’re done for the night.” Red Robin fidgeted slightly, looking to Black Bat and Batgirl both. Stephanie looked like she was seething, trying to put a hole in his head with nothing but her eyes.

Cass shook her head, once, was standing tall and calm, “We are fine.” She said. Batman pushed down the reply that wanted to burst out of his chest. He didn’t want any of them out without him, not then, not that night.

_“B.”_ The voice was in his ear this time. _“Let them stay out, the rest of the inventory needs to be checked out, I’ve already scanned the remaining containers, nothing else is rigged.”_ He wanted to argue, it was on the tip of his tongue when she continued. 

_“I know what’s going through your head right now B. You need to call it a night, you’re right. I even respect taking Robin with you. But the others are fine and if you push for them to turn in you’ll just make Robin feel worse.”_ Bruce hated that he knew she was right, he was being unreasonable. Finally he let out a huff of a growl and turned away from the rest of them.

_“And B,”_ Oracles voice filtered through his ear piece one more time as he walked briskly towards the batmobile, _“Try not to be so…._you, _when you talk to Robin. I know you’re used to pushing everything behind a mask of angry indifference with criminals, but he’s_ not_ one.”_ With that there was a quiet click on the line and he knew she had disconnected, that she wouldn’t hear any reply he might make. It was easy to hear the warning in her tone and Bruce swallowed, trying to put on the mask of calm he would need to take her advice.

He brushed past the Commissioner on his way who only gave him a nod from where he stood speaking in his cell phone. He pressed a hand to the mouthpiece and lifted his chin.

“Glad everyone’s ok.” Bruce managed a nod in return, thinking _barely._

Dick and Damian’s voices both abruptly cut off when he joined them in car, Dick was in the backseat. Bruce didn’t speak, he put the car on auto, gripped the wheel tight anyway, hands moving with the motion of the wheel instead of the other way around. He couldn’t let either of them see how they were shaking, how poorly he was doing.

Damian sat with his arms crossed in the passenger seat, stiff and glaring at the dashboard, shoulders hunched forward. Even with the mask Bruce could tell he kept flicking his eyes over, glancing at Bruce, his anger bellied nerves and anxiety just like Bruce’s own. He should have reassured him. Said something, but his throat was stopped up, his teeth were grinding so tightly together he could feel them straining in his head.

His mind went over and over what could have happened, the kind of scene he could have walked into if things had gone differently and so he tried to change tack. Solutions. That’s what he needed to focus on. What could prevent this from happening? What could lessen the danger if it did happen again?

He would have Tim look at the tech in Robin’s suit, Oracle too, see if they could improve the computing technology. If criminals were improving their tech Batman’s people needed to be one step ahead, always. Lucius could take another look at Robin’s armor to improve the capability, they were experimenting, he knew, with increased density poly materials. Bullet proof material with a fraction of the weight and thickness. He wondered if the flexibility would be enough to make the entire suit out of it. The joints had always been a weak spot.

Jason, of course, wouldn’t allow him to have so much influence over his armor but Bruce could find a way to present it. Simply leave a redesign in one of his safe houses. Jason would likely check it over for bugs or anything else he thought Bruce would attempt to plant on him, but once he deemed it nothing more than improved armor he would start wearing it. 

It wasn’t ideal, because he needed time, time to implement the changes. And in the meantime Jason would be out there, working in subpar equipment.

It was when they were pulling into the cave that he was finally able to speak again, the knot of tangled emotions in his gut loosening the slightest bit at having a direction to take.

“You’re going to take a break from patrol.” He said as Damian hopped out of the car, managing to keep his voice level, not that it mattered. The boy stumbled nearly to the floor at his words and spun around hotly, vaulting the batmobile entirely to come face to face with him.

“You can’t do that!”

“I can.” He kept his voice even but it was a near thing.

“Bruce.” Dick had already peeled his mask away, leaving red, irritated skin around his eyes - Dick had always done that, he hated arguing in masks. Bruce kept the cowl on, felt like a coward for it but couldn’t bring himself to give up the defense. “You’re being unreasonable.”

He didn’t have a response, because he wasn’t. He wasn’t being unreasonable but he didn’t know how to explain it without breaking his own chest open. He was saved from a response as Damian inserted himself back into the conversation.

“It was not my fault!” His voice cracked on the last word.

“It doesn’t matter who’s fault it was.” Bruce was so tired. But he knew he would be staying up, that sleep after that patrol was not an option.

“Of course it does! If anyone is to blame it is Drake - he is the one with the better tech, he should have warned us.”

Dick looked momentarily thrown and Bruce didn’t blame him, though neither of them should have been surprised, Damian’s penchant for blaming Tim for every negative thing that happened in the universe was not to be underestimated.

Bruce didn’t know how to respond when Damian got like this, he never had and all he wanted was for his son to go upstairs and get some sleep, safe in his bed. Bruce couldn’t talk to him, he knew everything he said would sound angry and indignant. Oracle was right. He was so used to pushing every strong emotion down below a surface of anger and indifference in the face of criminals, of being false and empty in the face of the Gotham elite, that when he needed to be real everything came through a filter of both personalities.

If he couldn't be calm, he was either obviously fake, which was always interpreted as some sort of passive aggression, or he sounded furious. 

He would change his clothes and hope that Damian followed, even if it was only to continue the conversation it would at least get his son out of costume without a second argument. He walked past the medical station, up the few steps to the mid level and back towards the changing rooms, absently registering the sound of a motorcycle entering the cave as he did so, Damian at his heels. Dick right behind him. He hoped Tim had at least come back for the night, he never got enough sleep.

He could pretend that Cass had gone to stay with Stephanie for the night even if she usually told him when she did, but if Tim didn’t come back to the manor he’d never know when or if he made it back to his apartment. Not since he caught him sending his check-in text while still on patrol. 

“Ok - It’s no one’s fault. I think we can all be clear on that.” Dick insisted, rounding to Bruce’s front, stopping him just outside the changing room, leaving them standing in front of the entrance to the showers. 

“Hn.” Bruce nodded in reply, unstrapping his gauntlets and slipping them off, the cut in his hand was beginning to throb from clutching the steering wheel so tight.

“You don’t believe that. You think I am to blame.” Damian’s voice was tight, like he was holding back tears and trying very hard not to sound like it. Bruce couldn’t look at him, focused on the cut in his hand and the pain when he curled it into a fist. 

“I don’t.”

“Then why am I being punished?!”

“This is not a punishment Damian.”

“Then why are you angry with me?” His voice wavered and Bruce closed his eyes briefly, feeling exhausted and pained and entirely incapable of handling the situation. 

“I’m _not.”_ But he couldn’t keep the frustrated growl out of his voice and Dick gave him a murderous look as Bruce pushed past him through to the lockers, where he would have more comfortable clothes and something to focus on other than how badly he was mangling the conversation. 

He didn’t want to talk about this. It was too much, he was wound too tight, he would never be able to get the words out like he wanted to. He never could even on a good day.

“You’re lying!” Damian and Dick both had dutifully followed him to their own lockers, Damian’s just to the right of his and Dick’s just on Damian’s other side. Damian tore off his gloves and then his mask so harshly that he peeled off a layer of skin next to his left eye. He wiped angrily at the blood, smearing it across his temple and Bruce had to brace his hands against the locker for a moment, steadying his breathing and pushing away the image that wanted to replace his living, breathing son next to him.

“Damian-”

“You could at least have the decency to tell me what I did wrong.” He tore off his cape, hanging it haphazardly on the hook next to his locker.

“You didn’t do anything wrong Kiddo.” Dick insisted from Damian’s other side, much more methodically hanging up his weapons followed by his gloves, sitting down to work on his boots. “Take a breath ok?” He attempted to lay a hand on Damian’s shoulder but the boy brushed it off, turning to face Bruce as he sat down, attempting to pull off his own boots and feeling oddly like he’d lost the strength for it.

Damian ignored Dick’s reassurance and went on, “You cannot take away patrol.”

“Damian-”

“I will do extra training!”

Bruce closed his eyes, letting his boot fall to the floor and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“This is not about training.” Damian was shaking. From as close as he was he could practically feel the air moving around him. “We can talk about this tomorrow.” Bruce knew he was only making things worse at that point, that Damian’s insecurities would make Bruce’s fumbling words even worse than they were on their own and he needed to game plan, to get his head back together before he could be expected to discuss the safety of his children, the risks that they all took.

“You do not trust me.” Damian hissed.

“That’s not true.” Dick interjected, suit pulled down to his waist.

“I was not speaking to you Grayson!” Damian didn’t turn away from Bruce, hands balled into bare fists.

Bruce should have replied, he knew he should say something back, refute the claim, because this had nothing to do with Damian’s ability, or his trustworthiness and everything to do with the dangers in the world that no one could ever truly be prepared for. That Bruce knew could catch anyone off guard, could take a child’s good intentions and turn them against him.

He took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll talk later.” The words barely made it out above a whisper and he heard Damian’s breath hitch in the quiet following his dismissal before the boy took one of his boots and rocketed it across the room, denting one of the girl’s lockers with an echoing clang and falling into a pile of purple sweatshirt draped over the bench beneath it.

_“Fuck you.”_ And then he was gone, leaving Dick to fumble off the rest of his suit and grab a pair of pajama pants.

_“Christ Bruce.”_ Was all he had time to say, leveling him with an incredulous glare before he was rushing out of the room after Damian.

Bruce wanted to apologize, he wanted to ban his children from ever patrolling again. He wanted to go get Damian and take him to Jason’s apartment and sit up with both of them all night so he could be sure that they were both still alright.

It felt like there was a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. Bruce didn’t think he’d ever heard Damian swear before, let alone use the F word. The boy had been in tears and all Bruce could manage was - _let’s talk later._ He pressed his forehead to the locker in front of him for a split second, letting out a shuddering sigh before standing up. He pushed back the cowl finally, pulled off his cape and hung it all neatly on the hook for Alfred to take care of later. 

He stared at it, the cape and cowl, hanging there empty.

“Useless.” He muttered to himself, the familiar feeling of frustration and self loathing bubbled up his throat in a sudden rush. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots, swallowing harshly on what felt like a physical weight slipping down his throat and into his stomach.

He’d done nothing but make things worse.

Somehow changing out of the rest of his suit felt completely impossible. He shut his locker, was in the middle of making a mental list of steps to take in his efforts to redesign the Robin uniform when he stepped back into the main cave.

The sound of a sharp intake of breath was the only reason he looked up.

Stephanie Brown stood in front of him, cape and cowl balled up and held at her stomach, both arms wrapped tightly around the bundle. Bruce froze, feeling, for the first time he could remember, like a deer in headlights, mind blank, unable to formulate a next move. They locked eyes, Stephanie staring at him with an indecipherable look, her eyes briefly scanning the rest of his face like she was searching for something. He saw the muscle in her jaw twitch and he very carefully slid to the side while she watched him, her face blank.

Bruce was distinctly reminded of the time she had slapped him and barely managed to keep from tensing when she opened her mouth. He waited for her to yell, to berate him for how poorly he’d handled Damian and Dick both, knew that he would deserve it. 

But instead she seemed to deflate. “I left my clothes here, test tomorrow...figured I’d go ahead and turn in early.” Her voice was quiet, almost bored, and then she brushed past into the locker room and he watched her move out of sight, his mind still utterly empty.

All he could manage for a long moment was to stand there, staring at the empty space she once occupied before shaking himself out of it, not wanting to be found standing there when she returned. 

He shuffled down to the computer, feeling stiff, and old, and useless. He sat down, unlocked the desktop and tried not to think about what her face meant. What making Stephanie Brown speechless could possibly mean for him.

The schematics for the Robin uniform had just appeared on the screen when the soft shuffle of feet came from behind him near the stairs. He heard them pause halfway to the driving range, sitting stiffly in his seat he wondered if this was when the yelling would start. He didn’t breathe for a long moment, but just as the silence drew out long enough that he began to wonder if he had been mistaken somehow and she was still in the locker room, her steps continued. Down past the computer, lower into the cave, past the batmobile and to her customized, purple bike that he should have realized was hers from the beginning. The cadence of each bike’s motor was different, but he had been….distracted when she pulled in. He wasn’t sure what he could have changed about the exchange she must have overheard even if he had been aware.

Bruce listened to the motor start up with a soft hum, the engine revving quietly, and then pull out of the cave, neither fast nor slow, just a steady pace he would normally think nothing of. Somehow this one seemed significant.

It wasn’t as though his relationship with Stephanie could be much more volatile than it already was, Bruce supposed. If anything, perhaps the cold silence would help keep things focused on patrol. He let out a small, bitter laugh and pressed his fingers painfully hard into his eyelids, “Useless,” He whispered again, dropping his hands back to the keyboard and staring at the screen for a long moment before opening up another window and pulling up the security footage of the building across the street from Jason’s. He left it up on the screen while he worked.

It would be a long night, but not as long as others he’d faced. He was lucky, he reminded himself. And so he focused on the work in front of him and pressed down on the images his mind continued to conjure up, counted his breaths and clenched his hands against trembling fingers. 

Everything was fine. 

  
  


*

  
  


In the end he managed a collective two hours of sleep or so, riddled with nightmares that kept him jumping awake.

Bruce was glad for once that he had engagements at WE the next day, forcing him up and out of bed so he didn’t have to continue struggling for an ounce of sleep that wouldn’t leave him drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. The day was long but it was what he needed, distraction enough to pull him away from the previous days events, enough mental exercise to leave his exhausted mind blissfully blank when he finally left the office. He was in his study in the manor, just around sunset when there was a sharp knock on the doorframe, giving him just enough time to glance up before Dick walked into the room and pointedly shut the door behind him.

“I’m going to keep this productive.” He said with a tight, bitter smile that had Bruce’s gut twisting back to when he was 19 and they were constantly at odds. “You’re lucky too, because otherwise there would be a lot of yelling.”

His posture was tense when he stepped toward Bruce’s desk. He didn’t take a seat on the couch, he didn’t make a joke to alleviate the heavy atmosphere. He stood as tall as his frame allowed, chin tilted up, staring at Bruce as if he were inviting a challenge.

“You _cannot_ shut down on Damian like that, do you hear me?”

Bruce carefully put down the pen he had been holding, instead folding his hands on the desk and trying to formulate a way to respond when his son continued.

“I get it, it freaked you out. And if it had been me?” Dick pressed a hand to his chest, “fine, I can handle it, I understand your particular brand of neuroses even if it’s _shit._ But Damian doesn’t. He doesn’t know you like I do, he wasn’t raised with you.” Dick was nearly vibrating, his entire body tense and with these words he couldn’t seem to stand still any longer and began to pace back and forth in front of the desk. 

“He left his entire life behind in order to be here, with _you._ You cannot leave him wondering if he has a place here. You cannot make him question whether you trust him, whether you want him as Robin, whether you want him _at all._

_“You can’t Bruce._ He has nothing but us now and he already doesn’t feel like he belongs here. I know you’re shit at communicating, but this is beyond unacceptable. He is a kid and he needs you to talk to him when either of you is upset, not pull the bullshit you did last night.” He stopped then, turning back to face Bruce head on, while he sat stiff backed in his desk chair. “He was in tears for nearly an _hour_ Bruce - _Damian.”_

And Bruce couldn’t - he closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his stomach lurch in response, but he couldn’t wallow in it. Dick was right there and if he kept his eyes closed he would take it like Bruce wasn’t listening so he snapped them back open, pushing down the heavy twist of guilt to think about later, when he didn’t have a furious audience.

“I swear to God, if you pull this shit again I’m taking him back to the penthouse with me and you can visit him on the weekends.” 

Bruce felt like he’d swallowed his tongue. Had no idea what he was going to say in return when his son stopped and stared at him. Dick seemed ready to continue, as if he was waiting for a rebuttal, but Bruce had none. Dick was right, that wasn’t the issue.

In the end Dick simply shook his head, rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, slipping soundlessly out of his study, echoing the image of Stephanie in the cave the night before, disappearing without a word as if he wasn’t even worth the effort.

He didn’t particularly blame them. He often felt like his body was at war with his mouth, like the connection between his thoughts and his one major tool of expression was fundamentally broken. 

Bruce knew how to compartmentalize. He was good at it. Or he was supposed to be, he used to be, when the mission had been more important than anything. 

But his life was full of more now. So many more things that were important to him and he couldn’t push those things down. Beyond that - his family deserved better.

But he’d done it for so long. Packed away every difficult feeling and pushed it down and away, far enough that it couldn’t touch him, telling himself it was less important than his mission.

He’d done it for so long that now when it was time to go back and deal with things, when his children needed him present, needed to know what he was thinking and what he felt, it just seemed lost to him. Inaccessible.

He felt all of it, he felt it deeply, so deeply he could never seem to draw it to the surface. 

He’d done it for so long it seemed like an impossible issue to address. And instead he was constantly left with a simmering lump of shame and self-recrimination in the pit of his stomach, an ache for the people closest to him that he couldn’t seem to stop from hurting.

  
  


*

  


There was a prominent social event that Bruce Wayne had to be seen attending that night, followed by another the next, giving Bruce a much needed gap in which he didn’t have to worry about arguing with Damian about patrol since he himself would not be going out.

He didn’t see Damian for nearly the entirety of those 48 hours, though he knew he was in the manor. Dick should have gone back to his apartment when the sting at the docks was over but he stayed. Bruce was fairly sure he took him on patrol with him and even though the thought made anxiety flare up like muscle spasms in his gut he said nothing.

Time helped the episode fade. Though he still checked the camera feed across the street from Jason’s building on his phone throughout both events. It was a pointless, self-soothing endeavor since the camera’s never showed anything but the outside of the building. The only clue he had to whether Jason was even home being if the window to his apartment was lit up or not. Unreliable at best but enough to quiet the voices in the back of his head that told him to check. 

It was three nights after the explosion that Bruce went back on patrol.

Damian was already in the cave when he came down, he was sparring with Dick and they were both in full uniform. Bruce paused to watch briefly before going to suit up himself. When he’d headed to the batmobile he found Damian standing in front of his door, Dick at his shoulder, a tight smile on his face and eyes hard. Damian was obviously tense, with a furious expression that Bruce had come to know meant he was either incredibly nervous or frightened. 

He warred with himself, every emotion from that night flared up unexpectedly, guilt, fear, the urge to reassure, reach out, and that same terrible anxiety like a knot in his chest that stopped up his throat like a plug. He needed to say something, he knew, Damian avoided him for two full days, not even coming to dinner which was unusual even when he was upset. But the hard line of Dick’s jaw was just getting more and more pronounced the longer his silence went on and Bruce - he had no idea what the right words were. He knew his reaction the night of the incident was - poor - to say the least. He knew Damian, of all of his Robins, needed patrol the most. That he feared not having a place, that just being Bruce’s son could never be enough for him, not yet, because he’d never been allowed to just be a son to Tahlia.

And then Bruce had tried to take away patrol, not for any reason that Damian could understand or that Bruce could manage to explain. He thought he was being punished - for something he had no idea how to avoid.

But he had no words.

And so he nodded, and Dick’s shoulders relaxed incrementally, though his face still looked tense, disappointed even. Damian swallowed audibly, nodded, and marched stiffly to the other side of the vehicle.

He was quiet on patrol, even while Dick bantered like usual, though it felt forced. The boys anxiety was palpable and Bruce managed to force himself to act, to reach out, just once, in the middle of the night when they were both perched on a rooftop in the rain while Dick was taking care of a mugging below them. 

He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and Damian tensed even further. Bruce, of course, meant it to be comforting, to voice the things he was incapable of saying, but where Dick as a child had somehow managed to interpret Bruce’s “neuroses” through the filter of a happy childhood and good parents, Damian had neither to fall back on for context. He squeezed once, gently, before letting go, trying somehow, with sheer willpower to convey the depth of his feelings. That he wasn’t angry, that he knew he overreacted, that he was afraid because he cared.

That he loved him.

Damian glanced back, his shoulders falling just slightly, an expression somewhere between wary and hopeful that broke Bruce’s heart and reminded him so much of Jason for a moment that it ached even worse.

That wary attitude, the constant defensive speech, disguising fear and hurt with spitting anger.

He felt suddenly doomed.

Bruce had ruined his relationship with Jason. What hope did he possibly have with Damian? When he was like this? This bumbling mute, the widely proclaimed “robot” who swung wildly between overly distant and uncomfortably controlling.

He could practically see the future laid out before him, another son slipping through his fumbling fingers.

  
  


*

  


Damian stopped avoiding him after that, of which he was grateful, but it also meant the next few days were particularly trying.

Damian snapped at Tim even more than usual, leaving his middle son defensive and wary, avoiding the manor as much as possible while Bruce tried to figure out how to handle it.

He arranged to have lunch with Tim at his office every day for the next week, tried to be softer with Damian, to communicate through actions that he had not lost his place, that he would never lose his place, while somehow not excusing his treatment of his brother.

Oddly, he found himself wishing he could ask Jason for advice, filtering through the memories of all the times his second son had acted out. It always stemmed from something, sometimes the root of the problem was even clear to be seen, but that didn’t mean it was easily addressed. He wanted to ask him, _what helped you? What things did I say and do that made you feel more secure? What things made it worse? What should I do?”_

But he didn’t have that with Jason. And where he had let himself hope that he might some day, in light of recent events it seemed impossible. 

  
  


*

  
  


It was on the fifth day that he saw Cassandra and he chastised himself for not paying her closer attention. She spent so much of her time with Barbara and Stephanie that he sometimes went days without seeing her. Though he usually texted to check in, he’d forgotten in the last few days in light of the situation. But Cass, he thanked any deity listening for Cass, because in spite of all of his failings, she knew - she always knew what he meant, even when it came out wrong or not at all.

She snuck up on him while he was sitting at the cave computer, slipping onto the desk at his side and putting her feet up on the armrest of his chair, jostling him to the side and making his fingers stumble over the keys. She’d done it on purpose, he knew, her bodily awareness would never allow it to be an accident and so he swatted her feet off his chair with a grunt and she grinned back at him.

He could feel himself relaxing in her presence, knowing she wouldn’t misinterpret something he said. Then abruptly, he just felt…awful. For somehow feeling on guard with the rest of his kids, like it was their fault all his words came out wrong if they came out at all.

She lifted a foot and kicked out towards his face, making him duck with a grunt. His eyes snapped up to her, narrowed in faux irritation and her grin just grew.

“Spar.” He’d normally make her work a little harder for it, but he was aching to work off some of the tension in his shoulders and it had been too long since he’d seen her. He made her wait while he changed into more comfortable clothes and then joined her on the mats. They warmed up slowly, Cass seemed to be feeling more playful than usual and Bruce let himself enjoy it, let himself actually laugh when she jut her fingers into his armpit and tickled. He smacked the hand away, honestly startled and she shuffled back, out of his reach while laughing to herself.

“You need practice.” He snorted.

“Oh really? In the ancient art of tickle fighting?” She nodded gravely in return, splaying her fingers out in threat and Bruce couldn’t help the huffing laugh he let out.

“Master Stephanie taught me.”

“Oh? She sounds formidable.” He said as they began to circle each other, Cass raised her eyebrows.

“You will see. I will train you.” And with that - she struck.

He didn’t know how he could be surprised each time by how quickly she moved, but he always was. She feinted to his left, reaching out like she was going to use the same move again, he blocked with his right hand, smacking it away again. I was always a mistake to grab Cass, pulling her close would only ever put him at a disadvantage and she knew it, sometimes she made herself easily caught on purpose. 

He threw a palm strike towards her chin an she dipped low, inhumanely fast, pushed herself closer and where he would expect a sharp jab to the ribs, she sent spider fingers all the way up his side, making him jerk away as if she’d landed the strike anyway. _“Cass.”_ He wheezed out, slipping his left foot just behind her right ankle and yanking it forward, but she could sense his movement and easily hopped out of the way. Her momentum pushed her to his right and he reached out, barely grazed his fingertips over the side of her neck, drawing an uncharacteristic squeak as she snapped her face to the side, nearly pinching his fingers.

She narrowed her eyes at him and he smirked back, feeling loose and easy, “I’ve studied under the great Dick Grayson. I may be out of practice, but I’m no novice.” Her poker face stuttered and she giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth for a split second before slipping into instant motion.

Cass was so small in comparison to him that the challenges of sparring with her were interesting. While he still overpowered her, she had immense strength for her size, hence her unmatched speed when she spun to his left, using a ballet move he knew she’d been practicing to get in close, wrap her left leg around his, used her right to press down on his knee like a step as she attempted to climb him like a set of stairs. He tried to grab her left foot with his right hand as it moved up for the next step while simultaneously grabbing for her arm with his other hand and leaning as far back as possible to catch her off balance. But in just a split second she had stationed herself squarely on his shoulders, sitting behind his head with her legs wrapped around his neck in a mockery of how parents sometimes carry their small children. Only Cass bowed forward until her eyes were even with his as her hands inched downwards while his reached up.

It was a standoff, and like lightning they both struck at once. He’d never heard Cass squeal like that in childish delight and it was that sound, more than her jabbing fingers, that got him laughing until he was having trouble breathing, until he flipped her off his shoulders and held her in a bear hug to his front with one arm and tickled the underside of her chin with the other hand while she feigned trying to bite him and hooked a leg behind his knees and knocked him on his ass with nothing but her own strength.

She flopped off of him and they lay next to each other on the mat, both breathing hard from laughter more than exertion. He felt light, lighter than he had in weeks and he could nearly cry from the relief of it.

“I win.” She wheezed and he plunged his fingers in her hair and mussed it up, smiling at her squawk of protest when she rolled to her knees and sat back, facing him.

“Master Stephanie huh?” Cass grinned and nodded. “Is that where you were the last few days?” Cass shrugged and nodded at the same time, _most of the time then._

He paused, not wanting to kill the light hearted atmosphere, but she tilted her head at him, knew he was hesitating, and at that point he wouldn’t get away without asking. 

“How is she?” Cass blinked at him and he knew she was surprised he would ask, which made him feel like a jerk all over again. She also frowned at him, like she knew why he was asking.

“Steph is...angry. _Angry, angry, angry.”_ She bared her teeth to emphasize it and Bruce nodded with a sigh, unsurprised. “I tell her not to be. I spend a long time telling her. I am always telling her.” And her face was just that small hint of unhappy that he saw when he upset Stephanie.

Bruce frowned back at her, still laid out on the mat, taking her hand and squeezing gently. “I’m...sorry Cass, that I don’t-...” His mouth felt more free than it usually did, he wasn’t sure why, maybe the simple reason that he didn’t fear her misunderstanding, maybe because he still felt lighter, even if the reminder of his last interaction with Stephanie dampened it slightly. But the words were still hard to come by and Cass squeezed his hand back.

“I know,” she said. “Words are...hard. I am bad at them too.”

Bruce hummed in response. “Better than you think.” And then he tugged on her arm and she smiled again, pulling back with enough strength to drag him to a seated position before she dove in for a hug.

And again, he thanked every deity listening for Cassandra Wayne.

  
  


*

  
  


It was the very next day, just after a lunch with Tim. Bruce was mildly concerned as he had seemed distracted and possibly a little nervous through the entire thing. Bruce put it to a large meeting with the shareholders coming up the next day, even if Tim wasn’t normally so nervous for those.

At least that’s what he thought, up until someone walked into his office not five minutes after Tim left, without knocking. He looked up from his desk, assuming it would be Tim again since his secretary didn’t let him know anyone was coming up. Instead, instead Bruce froze in his seat when he recognized one Stephanie Brown. 

She let the door close behind her and stayed where she was, some 20 feet away from him, just hovering in the doorway with her hands clasped in front of her and a nervous expression, she bit her lip. He took in her swept up hair, the pencil skirt and blazer, a practical pair of black heels, the way she tugged at her sleeves. This wasn’t a spontaneous meeting for her.

He had half a mind to call Tim immediately but he knew Stephanie would take offense and so he nodded at her instead, laying his hands flat on the desk in front of him.

“Stephanie.” He said, as if he were expecting her. She let out a tiny huff of breath, muttered something to herself and nodded, he got the sense she just gave herself a small pep talk and wondered how nervous he should be for the conversation to follow.

“Hey Bruce.” She said with a casual smile, walking all the way into his office and taking a seat in the chair in front of his desk, the one Tim had been sitting in just minutes before. There were still take out containers on the side of his desk, too big to fit in the small garbage bin under it. Stephanie made a show of kicking off her shoes and rubbing at her feet.

“You will never understand the pain of high heels.”

“Hn…probably not.” He humored her, feeling wary and curious at the same time. She didn’t appear to be upset or angry which gave him pause.

“So….” She stared at him for a moment, pulling both top and bottom lip between her teeth and tucking her hands between her knees. Bruce raised his eyebrows in silent question. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

“Unless you’re my new personal assistant, yes, I’m curious.”

“Ha, good one.” She cleared her throat, swallowed, glanced around at his desk, the potted plant in the corner, the view out his window and then she paused, took a deep, slow breath and sat up straight in her chair. She squared her shoulders and gave him a look he was much more accustomed to seeing on her face. Her eyebrows were low, mouth flat, she looked the pinnacle of determination and he really was curious. 

“So. I wanted to talk to you. About what happened. Last week, at the docks.”

Bruce blinked back at her for a moment, he shouldn’t have been surprised but somehow he was. He wasn’t prepared for the swooping sensation in his stomach at the reminder.

“Ah.” Was all he managed in return, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands together, studying them for a moment. “What did you…” He swallowed then, hating the show of nerves in front of this girl of all people. “What did you have to say?” He nearly bit his tongue at his own word choice, it was much too close to sounding like he was expecting some sort of apology.

He risked a glance up at her and saw that same searching expression she’d leveled him with in the cave, while holding her cape and cowl bundled in her arms.

“I….Were you having flashbacks?” She blurted the question and Bruce was taken off guard enough that his only reaction was to stare at her. 

“Flashbacks.” He choked out finally, tone flat. 

She gave him a tight nod and Bruce clenched his hands together, leaning back over the desk while trying to push his heart rate down.

“Cass told me…” Stephanie looked down then, at her knees, eyebrows drawing down in a look of concentration. “She said that basically, you’re head was...wrong.” She made a face at the word choice, her mouth twisting to the side, “Her words, not mine. But basically I think that’s what she meant, you were having flashbacks.” With the initial question out of the way her nerve appeared to be bolstered, though he never thought she needed much help in that area, and she looked back up from her knees, making direct eye contact.

“Stephanie…” He began, not sure where he was going but eager to end the conversation before it went wherever she was leading it, but she kept talking, right over the top of him. 

“I didn’t believe her at first, because you always act like that, all stern and angry and like the entire world has just personally offended you anytime something goes wrong, like, anytime someone makes a mistake you just seem so furious but Cass was pretty damn insistent and that’s the only reason I’m even here, having this conversation, because if Cass is right, and she usually is, then you aren’t as big of an asshole as you always seem.”

She paused for breath there, glancing away and Bruce wanted badly to cut in but he had no idea what he would say. In the end she didn’t give him much time to respond.

“And Cass, she loves you. Like more than anyone else in the world and she understands better than anyone how hard communicating can be.”

Here she did pause, like she was expecting a response and Bruce cleared his throat. “Ok.” He said, hearing the dead monotone cadence of it like a brick hitting the ground.

Stephanie’s face was guarded but not angry, she still had that determined expression. 

“So I’m trying not to be a bitch here. Because I get it.

“I do get that you’re…hurt.” The last word was slightly strangled. “And you don’t know how to handle it, or how to communicate and so that’s basically why I’m here.” Bruce thought he understood then, that this was another lecture, like the one Dick had given him in the study the day after the explosion. That Cass had somehow managed to talk her down from the screaming rage she’d been in at the time of the event when he had tersely ended Damian’s patrol without explanation, when he had seemed so angry about the mistake that was no one’s fault.

For a moment, he felt defensive, like he might argue. This wasn’t Dick, she didn’t know him like that, or like Cass, however much she thought she understood but he thought, she deserved to say her peace. She had miraculously held her tongue when she’d run into him in the cave and he thought, not for the first time, that Cassandra was something of a miracle worker.

Tim had let her into his office he was sure, so he must know what she wanted. He wouldn’t do that just so she could berate him with nothing productive to come of it. And so, he nodded.

“I talked to Leslie, about potential therapists, and she gave me a few recommendations, people she trusts explicitly that won’t leak information. People you could be…_honest_ with.” The meaning of her last sentence was clear as day and he was so taken off guard he didn’t manage to stop the scoff before it slipped out of his mouth.

She frowned on the reaction, but continued undaunted, her tone flattening just slightly. “Cass makes excuses for you. Because she knows how hard it is to make people understand her, but that’s not ok. 

“Bruce I’m not here to yell at you. I got the list because I think maybe Cass is right, and I know you won’t just go talk to some person anyone else picked so you can do whatever crazyass background checks on these people you want to and pick the best option.

“They aren’t even in Gotham, because the Lord knows you can’t trust psychologists in this city.” She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her sleeve then, the one she was tugging on earlier, and she set it on the edge of his desk.

He stared at the list for a long time, warring with himself on whether he felt offended or exasperated or - something else entirely. Either way it didn’t matter.

“Stephanie, that’s….” He didn’t know, _kind of you? Thoughtful? Entirely none of your business?_ “It won’t be necessary.”

She stared at him for a long time, her jaw going hard and eyes narrowing. She laid her arms flat on the armrests and tapped her right index finger lightly on the curved end, her fingernail making a sharp _ting_ with every tap.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Bruce wasn’t surprised by his own tone though he might need to brush up on his acting skills if he couldn’t manage to sound just slightly less bitter. 

_“Why_ won’t it be necessary? You already have someone lined up?” The question was obviously sarcastic and Bruce bristled in response.

“I am not going to see a therapist Stephanie.”

“Why the hell not?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, challenging, ever the Stephanie Brown he remembered.

“I do not have to explain myself to you.” He sat stiff as a board, one fist clenched around the other. Her nostrils flared, eyes going wide for a moment.

“You really don’t need to. Get therapy for the sake of your fucking kids and you won’t have to explain a thing.” Her voice was rising and he very nearly called the front desk right then to ask for security, but he knew Cass would be angry about it for weeks and it would be just the sort of overreaction Stephanie seemed to think warranted this little meeting.

Instead he gave her a hard stare, the kind he used in the boardroom as opposed to the glare of the cowl and she stared right back at him, unblinking. Bruce let out a heavy breath and managed to release his left fist from his right just so he could pinch the bridge of his nose while his knuckles throbbed from the strain of his grip. 

What he wanted to say was, _I don’t fucking need therapy you nosy little snit,_ but regardless of whether it was true or not, he recognized it, faintly, for the enormous misstep it would be. “I cannot risk my identity Stephanie. You must be aware of that.” And that time he sounded snide and Stephanie growled in response, hunching forward and glaring at him.

“Screw your _identity_ Bruce. You can’t let Batman eat you alive.” He barely restrained himself from flinching.

_“Christ_ Stephanie, not _here.”_ She rolled her eyes at him, shoulders hunched up to her chin. “I am not letting anything eat my alive, if my identity were revealed I would not be the only one at risk. Anyone who knows me would be in danger. Dick, Cass, Tim, Damian, Alfred, _you.”_

She looked at him like he might be insane.

“With the granted exception of Damian, only because he’s probably more messed up than you, you don’t think every single one of them wouldn’t jump for joy if they found out you were getting therapy?” 

That stung, in a way that was unexpected and he clenched his jaw so tight it hurt. Because Dick had attempted to talk him into the same thing before, about a year before his disappearance, and then again following Damian’s death. Clark had tried as well, after Jason’s.

“Regardless,” He said, not liking his own climbing volume, “It is not a risk I am willing to take.”

Stephanie leaned forward, entirely unaffected, “They’re called Non Disclosure Agreements Bruce.”

“Because as we know, everyone always obeys the law.” He couldn’t help but snap back. Stephanie smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and rolled her eyes.

“You trust plenty of people with your identity. This would be one more. Just one more person who could help you.”

“I am not talking about this with you. I think you should go.” Bruce looked back down at his desk, began shuffling his paperwork together, reached for his laptop to open but suddenly Stephanie was standing in front of the desk, a hand planted on top of it.

“Hell no, that is not a good enough reason.” 

Batman dealt with the criminally insane on a daily basis. Violent men and women who hurt others for sport, or to better themselves. And yet somehow no one could provoke his temper like his children and their friends.

“You are 19 years old. You do not get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.” He managed to keep his voice even but the volume was still above reasonable.

She took her hand away, taking a single, short step back. “Oh so my age counts for something? Just not your _kids._ We’re all too young to share our opinions, but if one of us upsets you? Who the hell cares how old they are, they can _handle it._ Is that what you told yourself when you made Damian _cry?”_

_“Stephanie-”_ They were both well and truly shouting then.

“Are you one of those people who thinks therapy is for the _weak_ or something?” She sounded disgusted, accusatory even.

_“What?”_

“It embarrasses you doesn’t it?” She crossed her arms over her chest, fingers digging into her forearms. 

“That is not-”

“You just can’t bear to swallow your pride one fucking time and ask for _help._ News flash Batman! You are human!” 

_“Keep you fucking voice down!” _The irony of the statement was not lost on him, but he was so worked up at that point the flash of incredulity on her face didn’t even phase him. “You are friends with my kids, and that is the only reason I haven't called security on you. You do not get to come into my office, at my place of business and tell me I need _therapy.”_ He picked up the list then and neatly tossed it into the trash at his feet. 

She stared at him with wide eyes, eyebrows raised, and jaw so tight he knew she wasn’t finished, not even close.

“Do you think you _don’t_ need therapy?” Her tone was even, cold. Her eyes were bright and hard and something sharp and defensive flared in his gut.

“I do not need you, a teenage girl, to tell me whether I need help or not! It's my job to handle my life, _not yours._ I will decide if and when I need therapy.”

“Oh my _god.”_ She threw her hands out to the sides, letting them drop down hard enough to make an audible slap when they hit the sides of her legs. “You know what, I understand what a fucking mess you are. Your life has been _shitballs crazy_ from day one. It’s not your fault, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need to fucking _deal with it!_ Everyone else cannot be expected to take up the slack for your damaged bullshit! You are their _dad._ Damian is a little fucking kid and Cass isn’t some stand in therapist or fucking _translator!”_

She spun suddenly on her heel, and began to pace in her bare feet, just like Dick had, like their bodies just couldn’t contain the sheer emotion exploding out of them. 

“God you are _Batman_ for fucks sake! I thought Batman could do _Anything!_

“I guess it’s anything but deal with your own repressed bullshit! _You need therapy!_ Hell, we _all_ need therapy! It’s not just you! But guess what, you’re the top dog in your ridiculous family. For anyone else to get help _you_ have to get it first.” She had been ranting to the walls at that point but then suddenly stopped, freezing just to the left of the chair she had been sitting in earlier and turning back to him.

“How can you possibly think you don’t need help when you deal with things the way you did at the docks? You were fighting a _horrible_ memory. That’s _awful,_ that sucks and I’m really fucking sorry that you ever went through the shit that moments like that bring up. But you can’t stumble through that shit and pretend to be fine while you make all your kids think you _hate them.___

“Unless you are just an asshole like I always thought. I mean Christ, the only time you ever managed to say something emotionally coherent to _me_ was when we both thought I was _dying!”_

Bruce couldn’t help it, he flinched. He felt nauseous. 

“Are you so selfish that you can’t see that you’re not just hurting yourself with this shit?” She threw her arms out to the sides, incredulous, and he was startled to see tears welling in her eyes, he felt frozen to his seat.

“I know you’re not, I know you see it. I know you kill yourself with guilt over it. At least that’s what _Cass_ tells me. But you never Do anything about it! No one needs your fucking guilt!” She raised her hands up in claws on either side of her face and looked up at the ceiling like all she wanted to do was wrap her hands around his neck before dropped them and continuing.

“I know you miss Jason, and he’s like, coherent, and mildly reasonable again, and you want to be close to him. Well, how the hell do you expect to do that when you’re like this?

“You’re Batman! You face aliens, magic, time traveling psychopaths, sentient plants, hallucinogenic toxins, and every other kind of super powered jerkoff there is on a nightly basis! You don’t accept your limits, you never have, so why do you act like you can’t do this one thing?

“Why do you accept _these_ limits?”

Her voice was ragged, and she was breathing heavily, she wiped angrily at her eyes when the tears spilled over and stared at him. Bruce found he couldn’t look away, that his heart was pounding and he was breathing just as hard as she was and every acerbic retort that had been building in the back of his mouth for the moment when she stopped yelling just completely left him.

Stephanie gave him that same searching look again, her eyes wide, flicking over his face and posture, and then she just - shrank. The sharp line of her shoulders curved in and she looked defeated.

Sad.

She leaned down abruptly, grabbing at her heels and stumbling to slip them back on before she turned away from him, walking stiffly towards the door. She paused with a hand on the knob, turning her face and glancing at him over her shoulder, eyes hooded, still wet.

“I just want you to be better Bruce, because I know you can be. Isn’t that what you always say you want for the rest of us?”

And then she threw open the door, and walked out.

Bruce watched her go, stared at the closed office door in her wake and tried to pull up some sort of reaction, but once again he was just left feeling exhausted. It was of course not the first time he had been yelled at by Stephanie Brown, it wasn’t anything new. But it didn’t feel like just any other argument. 

He leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand down his face and wondering how he was going to explain the angry teenage girl that just stormed out of his office after some sort of yelling match.

Bruce wasn’t left much time to think about it, as a moment later his intercom buzzed and an awkward voice filtered through, _“Um...Mr Wayne, the meeting with Mr Walters is set to begin in the next few minutes. I, um, I set him up in conference room three, sir.”_

Bruce took a deep breath and pressed the button to respond, “Thank you Valerie.”

If there was any reason to question the idea that Tim had arranged for Stephanie to meet with him it was banished when he set foot into the conference room and saw him a moment later. They made brief eye contact over the table and Bruce watched him flush and look immediately away. He felt his stomach sink. And he wasn’t sure if it was because Tim didn’t feel like he could bring this to him himself or because it was suddenly apparent that everyone close to him could see just how broken he was. Including his _kids._

The meeting was pointless. Bruce was distracted through the entire thing. He was distracted when he drove home that evening, distracted through dinner with Alfred and Damian. He was even distracted through patrol though he managed to keep his head this time. The conversation hovered in the back of his mind.

_Why do you accept_ these _limits?_ The question repeated, sunk its teeth into his brain and wouldn’t let go.

Why was this different? Why was this something he’d accepted? His own trauma completely ignored, always believing he was simply bad at expressing himself. 

Bruce was bad at so many things when he began his training. He nearly died multiple times, but he always...he always continued to push himself. Every wall was just another to climb or break though.

Why was expressing his feelings so difficult that he simply deemed it something he wasn’t good at and left it at that? Something he would beat himself up over time and time again when he inevitably hurt one of his children’s feelings, when he knew he left them wondering about things they should know without question. 

He wished he was better. Almost constantly he wished he had Dick’s talent with people, with expressing himself and handling the expressions of others. He wished it every time he expressed an interest in one of Tim’s investigations and received that surprised look in return, like he never expected Bruce to actually care.

He wished it when Cass frowned at him after a patrol with Stephanie when the girl left with her shoulders tucked up to her ears, grumbling to herself because she always took his silence as some sort of disapproval.

He wished it when Damian listed a thousand reasons why something wasn’t his fault, when he insisted on his own ability in every activity as superior and Bruce couldn’t find a way to reassure him that he didn’t have to always be the best. That he was allowed to be a child, to make mistakes. 

He wished it when every word that came out of his mouth sounded angry when he was anything but.

And he’d wished it for years with Dick. Even back when he would admit he...that he was better at it, which was just pathetic. He wished it so much every time that little ray of sunshine would respond to an offhand comment with “I love you too, B.”

And God, Jason. He wished it with every fiber of his being he was better at talking to Jason.

So why did he accept failure here, when he didn’t anywhere else? What was the difference?

… … … ...

… … ...

… ...

...

.

The question stayed in the back of his mind, simmering and sloshing around, flitting to the surface occasionally when he’d catch a gritted smile from Dick or that pressed flat mouth Tim got when something bothered him but he didn’t want to say anything.

And it flared bright and intense each time he felt the rising tide of emotion climbing up his throat only to lose form completely, turning to nothing but vapor, when he tried to voice them.

It was nearly two weeks later, throughout which he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Stephanie Brown. Just when Tim had stopped acting guilty every time Bruce entered the room that Bruce was sitting in the kitchen. He was attempting to read the newspaper, to keep apprised of what the public was saying about him. He knew it was simple, sometimes easier, just to look the stuff up online but he did occasionally enjoy perusing the rest of the paper and he’d use it as an excuse, might even work on the crossword later.

There was a small clink of porcelain against metal and Bruce glanced up to find Alfred at the stove top, setting out two mugs and spoons, then picking up the kettle to fill with water. He looked up and corked an eyebrow when he turned toward the island where the sink sat, where Bruce was seated just on the other side.

“Lost in thought I see.”

“Hn.”

“Is there a reason you might be secluding yourself to the kitchen instead of enjoying your paper in the dining room? Or your study perhaps?”

The question was almost traditional, as was his answer, “No reason.” Other than that Alfred always made tea at that time of day, and everyone in the house knew where to be if they might want to join him, an open invitation always standing. The question was an opportunity to bring up anything that might be bothering you, and also an easy one to deflect if you weren’t yet ready to discuss it, or you were simply there for Alfred’s company, which wasn’t uncommon either.

Bruce wondered if he had scared any of his children off that evening. He believed they were all out of the manor for the day but it wasn’t unheard of for one of them to come home just for this...He hoped it wasn’t the case this time, didn’t want to deprive any of them this time for his own needs.

“Well, since you’re here, would you care for a cup?”

“I suppose I could be talked into one.” Carefully, he folded the newspaper back down, setting it to the side as he observed Alfred preparing the tea. It was calming to watch, something deeply traditional about the act of sitting there, while Alfred moved smoothly through the process. Placing the tea kettle on the stove, lighting the burner, extracting sugar from the cabinet next to the cups and then going back for the milk.

The tea itself was always last, the same tin box Bruce recognized from childhood taken from a drawer next to the stove, two mesh strainers following. Loose leaves were carefully measured out, the strainers pinched closed and dropped into the cups, little hooks attaching to the outside edge to prevent the small chains from slipping into the tea.

And then he turned his back to the counter by the stove and leaned back, clasping his hands in front of him in a rare display of relaxed posture that subconsciously made Bruce’s shoulders lower, even when he didn’t realize they were tense.

“I see you’ve made quite an impression on the foreign front.” Alfred nodded toward the newspaper, referencing the article Bruce had been midway through, detailing his exploits with a foreign supermodel.

“Hn. I didn’t even take her to dinner you know. The photo they grabbed from behind? That’s not me.” Alfred chuckled.

“No, of course not, you were with master Damian that night if I remember correctly, working on a particularly taxing school project.” He lifted another practiced brow and Bruce was glad he wasn’t prone to blushing, even if his stomach did twist at the memory.

The project was simple, Damian was tasked with creating a presentation centered around a prominent and influential person in ancient history. It included a poster board with pictures and notes to be displayed in the classroom for others to observe after the verbal presentation was given. He didn’t need help, Bruce was plainly aware, as Damian kept insisting. But it had been one of those moments.

He wanted to spend time with his children. Outside of their lives as vigilantes and business partners. He enjoyed their company, liked watching them work on hobbies and personal projects and hearing them talk about themselves and their daily lives when he wasn’t around.

It was as simple as that. 

Of course Damian was immediately suspicious of being joined at one of the tables in the library, poster board laid out in front of him, a stack of pictures to one side along with a line of colored pencils, a ruler, and a #2 pencil with a fresh pink eraser, a notebook on the other side filled with neat script. He was in the middle of blocking letters for the title at the top when Bruce had entered, the boy freezing immediately and eyes flitting up and back down, a tense line appearing between his brows that could either mean irritation or nerves.

“How’s it coming?” Bruce had asked, casually, hoping to soften the stiffness in his son’s shoulders.

“Fine.” He didn’t look up, but also did not continue, hand held frozen with the pencil in his hand, hovering just above the poster. Bruce shifted, suddenly feeling off balance. He could try a different approach, Damian could be almost skittish at times under his direct attention, so Bruce shifted his focus, picking up the notebook his son had laid to the side and scanning over his writing.

“Hypatia of Alexandria….an interesting choice.” Damian’s shoulders tensed just that much more, though he did continue blocking in the letters, eyes determinedly on the work before him, not sparing Bruce a glance.

“She suited the subject matter required.” Bruce blinked at the terse reply, as well as the odd explanation.

“Of course…” He flipped through the next few pages of notes, hoping to find perhaps an interesting fact to discuss. “A rather gruesome death…” He mumbled somewhat, almost to himself as he read through those notes. There was a lot of detail, he thought sardonically. 

“It is all factual information, they said nothing about restricting violent language.” The reply was defensive, the crease between his son’s brows becoming deeper, his mouth turning down in a sharp frown. This comment, upon a little more thought, was rather a misstep, as Bruce remembered that that had in fact been a comment on one of Damian’s previous history assignments.

Bruce put down the notes, feeling out of step, trying to think of a different tack to take or a way to diffuse the mounting tension in the room, feeling his own shoulders growing tense as the silence lengthened.

“How long have you been working on this?”

_“I am perfectly capable of completing it on time.”_ Bruce blinked at the hissed reply.

“Damian, that’s not-” He suddenly threw down his pencil, grabbing for the notebook Bruce had been glancing through and flipping to the front cover where a slip of paper was folded just inside it. 

_“Here,_ if you wish to check my work.” He all but spat as he shoved the assignment slip at him. Bruce took it, his hands moving automatically in response to the gesture, but he didn’t look at it, instead he focused on the obviously upset boy just in front of him feeling out of his depth, frustration creeping up the back of his neck.

“That’s not-”

“I’ve included everything they asked for, the drawing is my own but there are hardly photos of someone who lived in the 4th and 5th centuries and the artistic renditions online were less than accurate to the appearance of an Egyptian woman, even with the Roman descent of her father, there is nothing known of her mother and she was born in-”

_“Damian-”_ His voice came out harsh, harder than he’d meant it to, he didn’t know why he always sounded angry when he was the furthest from it. He struggled to control his tone as he continued, “I am not criticizing your work.” Damian was scowling at him, the picture of disbelief. 

_“Tt._ Then why are you here if not to make sure I am following your rules?” His ams were crossed in front of him, shoulders hunched and defensive in a way that Damian rarely was, even when frightened the posture had been trained out of him. Bruce felt inexplicably _upset_ by the reaction.

_Because I want to spend time with you._

That was the clear and simple truth of it and exactly what he should have said.

“I-” But once again the words seemed stuck, the very idea of voicing them sent a nervous twist through his stomach that he knew was unreasonable and unfair to his son. “I was just checking in, that’s all.” His voice was subdued, tired, and he knew immediately it was another great misstep because Damian would take it as a reaction to him and not at all what it was, a resignation to his own failings.

“I am perfectly capable of completing a 6th grade history assignment without you _checking in.”_ He uncrossed his arms and leaned back over the project, snatching up his pencil and going back to work, shoulders still high and tense, scowl not leaving his face.

“Of course, Damian.” He spared just one more moment, hoping for some sudden inspiration, some miraculous surge of self expression that might, somehow, fix this. But there was nothing. Nothing but a bitter twist and a loud echo in the back of his mind.

_Why do you accept_ these _limits?_

Bruce knew that Damian’s defensive nature and insecurities, his tendency to see criticism and judgement where there was none, stemmed from a childhood of training that encompassed everything he did and that punished mistakes and disobedience alike without mercy. He told himself that as he left the library with a pit in his stomach, but it only seemed to make the uncomfortable weight feel heavier, more like a boulder that might just tear through his stomach to the floor.

Because Bruce hated that. He hated that his son felt insecure and unsure of himself, and more than anything he wanted to help abolish those feelings. But he knew, which was worse than almost all of the rest of it, that he only ever seemed to make it worse.

All of his children struggled with their own demons. Things that drove a spike through his chest each time he was reminded of them, that had motivated him to want to help and take care of them. And yet he wondered if he did any good at all beyond providing for their physical needs.

Cass was his only child he felt somehow equipped to help, only because she possessed a special skill in translating his stifled expressions for what they were, even when he didn’t know.

Bruce sat there at the island in the kitchen, watching Alfred as he looked steadily back at him, face calm and patient. He thought of Damian coming to tea on another night and relating the story of Bruce’s interruption to his school project. Thought of all of his children going to Alfred throughout the years, looking for reassurance and advice, a calming presence that made things seem manageable and if not that then at least made you feel welcome, like you weren’t alone.

“Al,” Bruce began, his hands gripping the edge of the counter in front of him, he could feel his throat going tight, uncomfortable, as words backed up in the base of his chest, struggling to make it through. He cleared his throat, began again, “do you think- I know I’m not-” He swallowed, opened his mouth for the third time and the kettle on the stove began to whistle, volume increasing to shrill in the span of seconds as Alfred quickly turned and grabbed the pot holder he’d set out and picked it up off the burner, pouring boiling water into each mug.

Bruce deflated, felt his shoulders sagging with weight like he couldn’t remember experiencing before. Alfred turned back to him in a moment, leaving the tea to steep and stepping away from the counter, walking to the island and leaning forward until his elbows rested on the stone countertops and he looked back at him, intent.

“What were you saying, Master Bruce?” He stared back at his butler, at the man who acted as a father to him when he had none, and he thought _this is important. Stop accepting things as they are._

“Do you think it’s possible to improve your ability to express yourself?” The words came out flat and devoid of any inflection, he knew his face was just as lacking, but Alfred only looked contemplative of the questions, not even surprised.

“I certainly do.” He nodded to himself as he said it.

“Why? What - makes you think so?” The older man tilted his head to the side just so and looked away for a moment.

“I think Miss Cassandra would be example enough.” Bruce frowned, feeling uncertainty expanding inside him.

“Cassandra needed magic to restore her ability to speak.” Alfred gave him an unimpressed look, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, her mind had never been taught speech, never been exposed until beyond a point in the development of a child’s brain that it was capable of learning it beyond rudimentary words. Cassandra needed magic to restore the physical ability of her brain to learn.

“I believe, unless I am mistaken, that _most_ people already possess the ability to speak.”

Of course there was no question of who this conversation was about, but Alfred would give him the comfort of pretending it was all hypothetical. He felt a sudden rush of affection for the man, wished, ironically, and with no small amount of self-reproach, that he could express it in any sort of meaningful way.

“People are extraordinary, and they are also very often, products of their histories. Cassandra’s ability to speak was purposefully hindered in order to improve her ability in other forms of expression. Magic gave her the ability to learn as a young adult what the majority of people learn from infancy, but she still had to learn it, she certainly wasn’t magically given the gift of gab.” He stopped there and looked down at the countertops for a moment.

Then he pushed himself up and stood away from the island, turning back to their steeping tea, where he went about finishing the process, extracting the strainers, adding sugar, stirring three times, a double tap of the tea spoon on the edge of the cup, a splash of milk, another single stir. Bruce watched quietly, letting his words sink in, contemplating their meaning in relation to himself and feeling a small kernel of hope settle in his chest.

When Alfred finished he picked up both cups and brought them over, sliding Bruce’s carefully across the counter where he wrapped both hands around it, allowing the warmth to soak into his palms. Alfred held his own up in both hands, leaning a hip against the side of the island.

“I think you would agree that Miss Cassandra has put a great deal of effort into improving her ability to communicate with the average person, the way _they_ communicate, and not just the way she knows best.”

“Yes, of course.” Bruce mumbled almost to himself as he lifted his mug, breathed the scent of Alfred’s favorite Earl Grey, waiting for it to cool.

Alfred watched him for a moment, expression carefully neutral, slowly giving way to pensive. It made Bruce suddenly nervous, though he couldn’t say why.

“As you already brought up, magic was able to restore Cassandra’s ability to learn speech….it…helped with the source of the problem. In terms of...the average person struggling with expressing oneself…there may be many different reasons behind such a struggle.” The older man looked down into his tea for a moment and took a sip, leaving Bruce feeling exposed and uncomfortable, gripping his own mug in a tight hold. Alfred continued to look into his tea for a long while and Bruce waited, feeling like there was more and unable to say anything in return even if there was nothing. Finally Alfred lifted his gaze.

“Certainly there is natural ability involved in something such as this, but so is there in everything. People have the odd tendency to think of certain activities, art for instance, as things one is simply good or bad at, but one can always improve with effort and time, no matter how naturally talented, or poor they were when they began. So yes, of course I believe it is something that can be improved upon,” At this, Alfred stopped, looking at Bruce with that intent expression that he had come to associate with important moments, with things that Alfred said much more plainly than he had ever been inclined to, because he didn’t want to risk being even slightly misunderstood.

“There are times when people don’t know where to start of course. When perhaps an artist looks at a drawing and knows it doesn’t look like what they wanted but can’t seem to figure out why, or what’s wrong with it...having a teacher can help.”

Bruce felt his shoulders tensing up as he dropped his gaze to the steam wafting up from his tea, making a concerted effort to loosen his grip on the ceramic.

“If one has trouble showing how they feel, or perhaps, even, _understanding_ how they feel, like anything else effort is extremely important, but guidance may be the missing piece that makes all the difference.” Alfred’s voice was soft already, gentle, but somehow it was more so when he continued. “It can be useful to examine the cause of a difficulty.”

Bruce didn’t remember the last time Alfred spoke to him like this, with such soft understanding. It made him feel frozen, it made him feel raw and completely bare. Of course Alfred would know about his conversation with Stephanie. All of them would, he suddenly realized. Stephanie wasn’t one to keep these things to herself, so Barbara would surely know, as well as Cass if she hadn’t already been aware. Tim already knew, it was a coin toss who was more like to have told Dick, him or Barbara. Any of them could have told Alfred. The only members of his family who might still be in the dark would be Jason and Damian. Jason because he was never around any of them enough to be included, Damian because he was too young and wouldn’t understand.

He felt suddenly and unequivocally embarrassed. The facade of Brucie Wayne had never felt more fitting than in that moment, like he was just some empty headed imbecile who thought he was the boss while everyone around him was silently laughing at his ineptitude.

But Alfred wasn’t laughing. Stephanie certainly hadn’t been. Tim seemed guilty and self conscious about the whole thing while Cass seemed to avoid it entirely and Dick centered himself around Damian, who needed him through the process of Bruce apparently figuring this out.

“Al-” His voice was barely above a whisper, strained and tight and he watched, strangely removed, as one of the butlers old hands came forward to pat at his own where they wrapped around the mug.

“I only ask that you consider it, Master Bruce, I know it is not easy.” 

With that he leaned back away from the counter and stood straight, continuing to sip on his tea. The serious and hushed air of the conversation lulled as Alfred took a long pull from his cup and set it down. 

“So,” He said, “I’ve heard the knights are set for a new record this year.”

Bruce blinked, stared at him while he went on, puttering about the kitchen while he talked, putting away the milk and sugar, the tea canister, rinsing out the kettle and then reaching into the upper cabinet next to the stove and bringing out a container of Oreo’s Bruce hadn’t realized was there.

He offered it to him, and Bruce took one, rather robotically, listened to the lighthearted and unimportant chatter buzz past him while his brain rolled over and over with other things, churning like a washing machine.

Guilt was a heavy weight in his chest. His children needed him, but he wasn’t what was good for them. Not right then. He wiped a hand down his face in frustration. Heard the echo in the back of his head _No one needs your fucking guilt Bruce._

Gripping his tea in both hands Bruce stared down into his cup, watched the dull reflection of his own face waver in it, listening to the soft, lulling tone of Alfred’s voice and feeling the weight of the future ahead of him. He could see where it was headed, a steady decline of his own mental health, a constant struggle to communicate what he meant only to be misunderstood, leaving his children in the lurch emotionally over and over until, one after another, they leave him behind. It had already happened more than once. He was lucky they gave him second chances.

And then what would there be? Even Gotham would suffer, he thought, in the back of his mind, because even if Batman could muscle through flashbacks and keep fighting, Bruce could not live without his family. Not anymore.

_You can’t let Batman eat you alive!_

He didn’t want to. He wanted to be better. Bruce wanted to be the sort of father that his own had been, calm, warm, comforting. He wanted to have Alfred’s presence, be approachable and inviting. He wanted to hear from his children about their days, about the problems they were facing, wanted to be able to join Damian in the library without his motives being questioned, to be able to talk and laugh with Dick like he had when he was a boy, to be able to go on patrol with Stephanie without leaving her fuming or hurt, to be able to ask Tim about his life and get a truthful answer, to be able to live up to Cassandra’s image of him.

To have Jay back in his life.

And maybe...Maybe it wasn’t impossible. Things could be that way, if he could be better. This was something that Bruce had known for many years...so why had he never put in the work to fix things? Of course he had tried in the past...but there were things that...that were just so painful to address. He would put the effort in until it started to hurt.

Bruce knew that was why. It was the entire reason he had refused to address the situation with Jason when he came back and he realized who he was. Why he shut down and could only bare to deal with the situation in the context that Jason was any other person, not his son. That had been too much - it had just been too painful. And so he continued on like Jason was any other criminal because of his own weaknesses, his own inability to deal with emotional pain like he could deal with the physical.

And look what happened. He wondered then, if he had been able to change direction, to confront the agony that would have come with accepting that this boy who killed, who was so enraged and hurt, was the same son he had lost, could things have worked out differently? Would Jason have listened to him if he had tried to reach out as his father, rather than Batman?

He had thought about it before, though the thought lost traction each time because he would just feel sick to his stomach even remembering it all. He would never know, and it didn’t help to fixate on it, but what he did know, with an awful heavy weight in his chest, was that it was possible. It was possible he could have helped Jason a long time ago, if he had been capable of handling his own emotions. His own _repressed bullshit._

Bruce wondered idly, if Alfred had ever had the same thought, and he nearly wanted to ask him but he could feel the emotion clogging up his throat, preventing the words from ever coming out and he just - God he wanted to be better, for his children, for himself. He was so tired of feeling miserable.

Why did he accept this limit?

Bruce took a drink of his tea. Felt the roiling mess in his stomach slowly calm, a numbness rolling through his body that he wasn’t sure how to interpret. He didn’t remember tea ending, didn’t remember finishing his cup or any of the things that Alfred said to him, watched his own feet walk him to his study and close the door where he worked on WE paperwork and only recognized half the words on the page. He made very little progress.

For the first time in months, years possibly, he went to bed at 10pm. Managed to send a text to Damian that he was not patrolling that night, but if Red Robin or Nightwing were going out he could go with either of them, not to go out alone. And then he slept like he only ever had when in the heart of a severe flu. It was heavy, it felt like the kind of sleep that could drag him into a coma. He didn’t dream, he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night to toss and turn. He slept.

  
  


*

The next few days felt strange.

Bruce had the sense that he was walking around above himself, watching every interaction, dissecting his own behavior. There was also a feeling in the back of his mind that it was all pretense, he had already decided what to do but it required some sort of lead up. It wasn’t possible to jump from one side of a chasm to the other without gearing up for the leap.

Of course there was also the possibility that he was stalling.

Cassandra found him in his study on the fourth day. He was so engrossed in the case he had laid out in front of him he didn’t immediately notice her. It was also, of course, a testament to her skill. He was Batman after all.

His phone vibrated to the side of the desk and just as he reached over it was snatched away. “Cassandra” He warned, not looking up from his work he held out his hand, palm up. She huffed a small laugh but didn’t return the device. Instead he received a high five with enough force to leave his palm stinging, which was finally enough distraction to pull his eyes up. He leveled her with an unimpressed look and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“I need that Cass, I’m waiting for a message from the League.”

“Not the League.”

“Oh?” He asked, still holding out his hand. She shook her head, clutching it close to her chest as she retreated toward the couch and coffee table, not breaking eye contact.

“Cass.”

“You need a break.” Bruce heaved a sigh and pulled his hand back, wiping it down his face. He was right in the middle of his casework, the file strewn across his desk, he’d have been in the cave but his knee was bothering him and the cold made it worse. But Cass was giving him that hard stare that meant she was not giving in.

“You are sad.” Her words were soft but in the silence that followed they felt loud, almost accusatory. “You are thinking, in your head too much. Can I help?” She took one more step back and lifted her foot onto the coffee table, folding herself up to sit cross legged on top of it. She set his phone to the side, resting on its face.

Bruce watched her for a moment, feeling an ache in his chest before he stood up slowly and walked around the desk to the couch, sitting down across from her. She spun on top of the table to face him, wrists resting on her bent knees.

“I’m not sad.” He said quietly, watching her face carefully, but she didn’t make it difficult to tell what she was thinking. She frowned, she didn’t believe him, and he gave a small huff of air through his nose.

“You are thinking too much still.” She tapped the side of her temple and he briefly thought of Stephanie again. 

_Cass isn’t your stand in therapist._ He almost wanted to laugh, but it felt tender, painful.

“Yes, I know.” And he watched her for a long time, wondering how to go about this because he realized there was something he wanted to say to her since this whole thing started. It felt important that he get it out. 

“I know it upsets you, when I...mess up - with Stephanie, or Tim, or Dick and Damian for that matter.” Her frown grew just a little deeper.

“I understand. Talking is hard, feelings are...hard.” His eyes scanned over her face and he thought how wonderful she was, and how grateful he was that she’d found family and close friends that felt the same way about her, that did their best to protect her, even when it was from him.

“But you learned. How to do those things.” She shrugged, eyes skittering across the room.

“It wasn’t easy though...can be…” She contemplated for a moment, tapping out a pattern on her knees. “Scary.”

He felt that ache in his chest again, a mix of pride and sympathy.

“Yes, but you’re brave, you try anyway.” Cass looked back up at him, eyes very serious while she stared at his face and he did his best to leave it open, to not try to shutter anything he might be showing her. Then her face softened.

“Stephanie.” He waited for her to go on but she didn’t, and he gave a sort of half laugh in return.

“She does know how to make an impression.”

“M.”

“She says you’re soft on me.” Cass looked momentarily surprised, which was unusual for her.

“Not soft...I...understand.” She frowned like those weren’t quite the words she was going for, a simple repeat of her previous statement, but eventually she roller her shoulders and nodded, signaling she wasn’t going to rephrase.

“Hn, and I appreciate that.” He was quiet again for a long time and Cass unfolded herself from the table, stepped to the side and sat down next to him on the couch, touching his hand where it sat resting on his thigh.

“But I wonder…” He continued, “If it’s time for me to be brave too. Like you.” He turned his head to look over at her and she stared right back into his face, the kind of intense eye contact that would seem aggressive in any other person, and then she shifted minutely, leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a hug, tight and all encompassing. Bruce had no idea how she accomplished it with her small frame. He shifted and she gave him just enough space to move his arms around her in return.

“I will help. We will help.” Her voice was muffled in his shoulder and he felt that rush of feeling put a lump in his throat and he pulled her closer, tightened his grip and said nothing, because Cass would understand this better, because it would be the last time he went easy on himself.


	2. We Were Born to Make it Better, But We Got Lost Along the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephanie gets a surprise visitor after class and discovers that miracles do happen.

Stephanie had one class left that day. One more class before she could go home and veg in front of the TV and let her buzzing brain rest. It was nearing October and they were nowhere near any final exams or important tests, she was smack dab in the middle of her quarter and she already felt annoyingly overwhelmed. It didn’t help that she was taking 25 credits to the average 15 and had her own “extracurriculars” to worry about. 

Tim had warned her away from taking so many classes months previously when she had just been signing up for her first quarter and at the time it had only made her more sure it was the right move. She wanted to be done with school as quickly as possible, she wanted to get her degree and get a job and establish herself before _something_ got in the way, because something always _did._ But after making it through spring quarter by the skin of her teeth she maybe should have reconsidered. Stephanie was remarkably resilient and it took a lot to burn her out, but this _was_ a lot and sometimes it felt like she was being buried under a mountain of responsibilities she had willingly piled on top of herself. Then of course she felt obligated to keep at it, to muscle through. She could do this. She had _literally_ signed up for it.

And she could, she knew she could. But it didn’t mean it was a good idea or that it was simple or that she would even manage to do a good job of it. But somehow anytime someone expressed (what she could recognize belatedly, always, as reasonable) concern for her ability to handle something it felt like a challenge and especially with the Bat’s… there was always something about them, every single one, that made her want to push herself, to be like them, to be better than the rest. And anytime it started to feel like they thought she wasn’t capable of something there was always this implication in her mind that _they_ could do it. So of course she could too. She would make sure of it. 

It was stupid. It was completely and entirely idiotic and she was suffering for it and she knew it. Tim hadn’t been warning her away from so many classes because he didn’t think she could do it. He warned her because it would be difficult and exhausting and he didn’t like it when she wore herself out like that. Cass had grumbled at her for it a number of times and even flicked her between the eyes when she had complained about Tim’s comments. And duh it’s not like Stephanie hadn’t had the exact same frustrations with Tim when he went all crazy obsessive about any number of things.

So Stephanie had her issues, she wasn’t arguing. Seeing a challenge where there was none might be one of them, she didn’t think too hard on it right then. Not while her psychology professor was outlining the weekly reading and end of week quiz she would be handing out that Friday. 

It was too late to worry about it now, she told herself while stuffing her notebook in her bag and gathering up her books. It was two and a half more months to the end of the quarter and she’d get a week blissfully free of school and then she could cut back to a normal amount of credits. 

She had 30 minutes until her last class, a humanities class that was thankfully, blissfully easy and required very little brain power (she had at least had the forethought to make sure one of her classes was _easy_). She could stop at the coffee shop on campus before heading there and get a snack and some caffeine and by the time that class was out maybe her brain would be quiet enough she could actually get some homework done that night.

The shuffle of bodies and voices around her as the class ended and everyone stood from their desks was just white noise while she slung her bag over her shoulder. She needed to book it to the coffee shop if she didn’t want to end up in a forever long line of all of her classmates and so she carefully slipped through the group, fumbling with her messenger bag and attempting to open the flap with one hand and stuff her books in with the other. The thought of coffee and something sweet, _chocolate_ she decided, distracted her enough that she was only vaguely aware of the people around her. 

She should really know better than to ever let her guard down because it was just then, while dreaming about a chocolate croissant and an overly sweetened mocha that a voice filtered in above the low murmur of everything else. 

“Here, let me help.” 

“Oh thanks, I got it-” She began to reply, before alarms were suddenly blaring in her head. She wasn’t sure if it was the voice or the looming, somehow familiar, silhouette of a huge man in her peripheral vision that caught up to her first but instantly she was frozen where she stood, eyes snapping to the shiny, black leather shoes of one Bruce Wayne when her fingers fumbled and she nearly dropped her last book.

Of course he caught it, one handed no less. Slowly, Stephanie forced herself to raise her head and look him in the face.

_What the fuck._

She hadn’t seen Bruce since three weeks previously when she’d shown up in his office uninvited. 

It hadn’t ended well, not that she had exactly expected it to. She had been avoiding the manor like the plague ever since and while she expected the twisted knot of anger and frustration and _regret_ to fade eventually it hadn’t quite gotten there. 

She stared for a long second, taking in the uncharacteristic red ball cap pulled low over his eyes, like he was trying not to be recognized, which _please._ Bruce Wayne at her community college was not going to go unnoticed. Her eyes quickly snapped to the people around them and found them either slowly making their ways toward the doors, trying to look like they weren’t watching, or stopping dead in their tracks and openly staring. 

Bruce leaned forward, putting his face just at the edge of her sight line. “I brought you coffee.” He said abruptly, under his breath so the people around them couldn’t hear. It seemed like an offhand, awkwardly delivered comment but it snapped Stephanie out of herself immediately. She glanced at the hand not holding her book and found one of Tim’s travel mugs.

_Oh God, oh God, oh no._

She had to stay calm, whatever Bruce Wayne was doing visiting her in the middle of the day between her classes, bringing her _coffee_ \- Oh lord something terrible had happened. Oh God, if he was there in person, it was - no, she needed to keep it together. Stephanie glanced around the crowd one more time, took a deep, slow breath and gathered herself. She stretched herself to her full height, pulling her shoulders back and letting out an irritated huff of breath. She waved Bruce to follow her as she wound through the crowd, nearly shoving a couple people out of her way. 

Stephanie had dealt with the gawking public for years since she began hanging around Tim and then Cass, anytime she attended a Wayne event, always posing as Damian’s babysitter or some sort of worker at the event. It was never easy to be the head people looked around to get a glimpse of the people next to you and while she’d always had to stifle her irritated reactions in those situations, this wasn’t one of them. Bruce was clearly there to see her and if one more person ignored her in favor of staring at him she was going to punch them. Instead she very nearly stomped on a man’s toes and shoulder checked another.

“Ex_cuse_ me. You can gawk on your own time, I have _things_ to do.” She grumbled to one particularly gobsmacked guy as they brushed past, through the door to the outside campus. They were heading into fall and it was just beginning to feel cold, Stephanie tugged her scarf a little tighter around her neck as she glanced back at him. It was impossible to read his expression, which wasn’t a surprise but it made her frown all the harder. Whether it was because he was a master at hiding his feelings or he was just incredibly poor at showing them she hadn’t decided and she wasn’t sure if she was mad about it or not.

She led Bruce around the building to a more secluded place, tucked between the building and a wooded area with a small picnic table and a few stone stools erected around it. The chill outside meant there was no one hanging around like there might be in warmer months thankfully, but it also meant Stephanie was already uncomfortable as she lifted her bag and set it on top of the table, letting it fall on its side as she slipped onto one of the stools and waited for him, clasping her hands tightly in front of her on the tabletop.

Bruce set her book down on top of her bag and took the stool across from her, slowly, staring at her with the sort of intensity that made her want to squirm. She resisted the urge and instead stared at her thumbs, stacked one on top of the other and didn’t look at him. Her heart was pounding, thinking of every terrible thing she could dream up to call for the in person visit from Bruce himself. Was it Damian? Tim? Cass?

Bruce set the travel mug down on the table and slid it towards her. Stephanie stared at it, feeling like she was looking at a pretty, poisonous thing, because she’d only ever known nice things to come from Bruce when they were to soften the blow of something that _hurt._ But whatever it was….whatever the reason for the odd kindness, she wasn’t going to say no. She unclamped her hands and reached for it, drawing it close and holding it tight. She could handle this, whatever it was, she could handle the news. 

Stephanie took a deep breath, doing the exercise Babs had taught her to slow her heart rate. She put on a false smile, the kind she wore probably too often lately and sat up straighter.

“So, what do I owe this sudden social call?” She clicked her teeth closed with an audible noise and clenched her jaw. Bruce’s intent expression shifted, his brows drawing together the smallest amount.

“Stephanie, I-”

And she couldn’t take it, whatever lead in he was going to use. “Please just spit it out if someone’s dead.” She blurted over the top of him. Her tone was brittle and she had a split second to take in the widening of his eyes, the briefest hint of surprise on his face.

“No, no-” He rushed out, “everyone is fine, that’s not what this is about.” She closed her eyes, feeling the bottom of her stomach drop out at the sudden release of tension. She couldn’t stop the rush of resentment climbing up her throat.

“Oh my _God_, then what the hell are you doing here?” When she opened her eyes again he was staring at her, a small frown on his face that did nothing to quell her anger. But then she glanced down at the coffee still held in her hands and just felt thrown. That wariness from before hadn’t melted away, so no one was dead or injured...that still didn’t mean everything was ok.

Stephanie had it in her head that they were both going to pretend the screaming fight they’d had in his office had never happened and go on with their lives as before, since it was the pattern already set. But maybe Bruce had come to tell her she was no longer welcome in the cave if she thought she could show up at Wayne Tower and harass him. Not that she had been spending any time there as of recently anyway. Her hackles were still raised, but the coffee...it didn’t quite fit. If he was angry with her he wouldn’t bring her something nice…She didn’t know what to think.

“I - wanted to speak to you.” Bruce finally said, glancing down at her hands around the mug. 

“Okaaaaay….” Her voice was quieter and more hesitant than she had been going for. _Nerves ugh._

“I threw away your list.” She stiffened and looked immediately down at her hands, convulsively tightening her grip, she felt her mouth twisting with her stomach, felt the familiar mix of embarrassment and anger rush through her. “I was wondering if you might have another copy.” 

Stephanie stopped then, staring intently at her chipped, purple nailpolish repeating his words in her head just to make sure she had actually heard them correctly, before drawing her gaze back up to meet Bruce’s eyes. She could feel her mouth hanging open but the numb astonishment was enough to make her not care.

“What?”

For the first time since Stephanie had met Bruce, she had the bizarre experience of watching him fidget. She’d seen him uncomfortable before, sure, but he was always an expert at covering it up, he’d clear his throat and brush past it. But instead she watched him take a shallow breath and look down. “I-...” He swallowed, staring at something below the edge of the table. He was avoiding her eyes. “Have thought about our conversation a lot recently.” When he looked back up she knew her face must be comical, a cartoon version of surprise because she didn’t think she could open her eyes or mouth any wider.

She had to get a handle on that, because this could mean important things, it could mean _monumental things_ if it wasn’t a freaking dream. She wrenched her jaw shut and swallowed, blinking rapidly to just - _reset._

“Which part?” She asked breezily, impressed by her own acting, trying and failing to loosen her grip on the travel mug. Abruptly she decided to take a drink, that would be casual, that would show her absolute ease with this conversation. Of course in her haste, the drink she took was much bigger than she’d meant for it to be and it was also on flippin’ _fire._

Bruce had just opened his mouth to continue when she nearly choked, leaning over the side of the table and dropping open her mouth in a panic to let the scalding coffee fall to the ground. _“Hot hot hot, holy shit.”_ She waved a hand in front of her mouth as if that would somehow help, all the while thinking _kill me, kill me now, please just let me crawl under this table and die._

She sputtered a bit, watching a string of spit slowly drop down into the sparse grass and pine needles. She swallowed and wiped her mouth before biting the bullet and popping back up above the table, smile firmly in place while her tongue sizzled in her mouth. Bruce was staring at her with an entirely blank expression.

“Are you alright?” He asked in a similarly flat tone.

“Peachy.” She bit out, feeling exactly like the time in second grade when she had been in the middle of giving and oral presentation when she’d swallowed wrong and spent five minutes red in the face and choking on her own spit while the entire class watched.

“I’m sorry it...was too hot.” He seemed confused by the words coming out of his mouth and Stephanie felt a hysterical giggle swimming up her throat that she barely managed to swallow down.

“No worries, I’m a grown person, should know better. Coffee’s good though, I think. Maybe. Didn’t really taste it. You were saying?” Divert attention, the best tactic to avoiding embarrassment.

Bruce stared for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he should drop it quite yet before taking mercy on her and opening his mouth. “I - Um, that is you-” Amazingly it appeared to have thrown Bruce more than it had her and she watched with a morbid sort of fascination while he attempted to regather his thoughts. There was a brief moment when his eyes widened at his own rambling like he couldn’t believe what was coming out of his mouth and Stephanie, really truly honestly wished she could have gotten this entire interaction on video because despite her own embarrassment this was just - nothing she had ever seen before. 

“You made more than one good point.” He finally managed to say, the words strained, though she couldn’t say whether it was because of his odd fumbling or because it was painful to admit. 

Stephanie’s insides felt like someone was dancing the tango in her stomach.

“Well, yeah.” And _wow_ as nice as it felt to say, she wanted to slap herself. She’d spent the better part of two weeks flip flopping between being furious with herself for how she’d flown off the handle when she’d meant to be _calm, collected,_ and _reasonable_ and being furious with Bruce for dismissing her like she’d expected him to from the very beginning.

Antagonizing him for admitting he shouldn’t have was _not_ the way to handle this, the emotionally mature part of her was well aware but wow she just - felt like she almost couldn’t help herself. There was also a heavily lingering sense of doubt that left her kind of _defensive_ still. “You’re serious though,” She blurted, “you want the list.” Bruce nodded slowly.

“I do.”

“Why?” She could hear the challenge in her own voice, felt the ire that had come up in her during their fight peeking out again. And she shouldn’t be, she really shouldn’t be challenging this miracle, but she just - couldn’t believe where it was coming from. Even staring down at the coffee which she now recognized as the sort of peace offering it was meant to be, she couldn’t just let him get away with it.

Stephanie had been dismissed by Bruce Wayne more times than she cared to think about and while she knew he had..._tried_ a few times, to - she wasn’t sure if _make up_ for things was the right word choice, but something along those lines. Not least of all after he’d come back out of the time stream and he’d told her he was impressed with her work and she’d been so overcome with _everything else_ going on with him that she’d hauled off and slapped him. But there was always the hurt there, always the anger at how things had happened when she’d been younger and she’d been dying for someone to just _acknowledge_ her. 

And then he finally had, but she’d _actually_ been dying. Or thought so anyway.

It was a long time ago, and she shouldn’t hold it against him anymore. He wasn’t her dad, and she should never have put that on him. She knew she had issues of her own, and the last thing she wanted from him at this point was _that._ But she was also best friends with more than one of his actual kids and watching him walk all over their emotions over the years was enough to rouse the festering resentment up from the pit she kept it buried in.

She’d fought with herself about whether she believed he was even worth the effort, before she’d finally decided to approach him about therapy. But it was the only possibly good outcome she could think of. The night that she’d watched him turn into a growling, snapping asshole to his kids after an accident that wasn’t their fault, least of all Damians, the youngest among them and the most sensitive (despite all appearances), to criticism. But where she was blinded by her own interactions with Bruce, and by her limited ability to read him, Cass wasn’t.

It took some doing, and some extensive ranting on Stephanie’s part, but Cass had convinced her, at least to a certain extent, that Bruce had reacted like that because he was _scared,_ not because he was angry. She’d thought of Damian and how furious he always acted when she knew he was just nervous or uncomfortable or sad or frightened or literally anything. And then she’d heard Bruce let out this pained sigh on the other side of the locker room wall and whisper to himself that one word that made her boiling anger shift and twist into uncertainty.

It didn’t erase the blame, because Bruce was an _adult_ and he was responsible for so many other people and if he cared he would put the fucking effort in and - and now it sort of sounded like he might want to, but why had it taken so long? Why now? Why should she believe this was different than any other time?

Bruce stared at the table top for a moment, before looking back up and making eye contact with her, holding it, finally he opened his mouth.

“Because I’m tired of accepting my limits.”

Stephanie didn’t say anything in response for a while, registering that yeah, she had said something about that, hadn’t she? She stared down at her coffee cup and fiddled with the lid.

“And you’re not, like, a body double or something.” She glanced up enough to see Bruce close his eyes.

“Stephanie-”

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding. I’m just...surprised is all.” She couldn’t settle on a feeling, things swirled around in her head, disbelief, anger, hope, before she managed to swallow it down enough to listen.

“I would have figured Cass would have mentioned something to you.” And Stephanie gave a short laugh and tugged at the front of her scarf, because yeah, actually she remembered then, the day Cass had shown up to her apartment beaming and Stephanie couldn’t figure out why.

Until Cass had said “You made an impression.” And Stephanie had given her a weird look, “On Bruce. He said it.” And Stephanie had felt a spike of discomfort through her and gave a soft snort and rolled her eyes.

“Sure.” She’d said back, changing the subject as quickly as possible and trying to ignore Cass’ frequent smiles and significant looks for the rest of the night.

“I mean, she kinda did now that I think about it. But it was...vague and being honest, I didn’t really believe her so…” She hadn’t meant to sound quite so annoyed but there it was.

“That’s….” Bruce clenched his jaw, and Stephanie braced herself for the abrasive response, told herself not to get her hopes up with this. “Understandable.” He finally settled on, his tone carefully neutral and Stephanie stared at him with a faint twist in her stomach, mouth pinched closed. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but at the same time, she _wanted_ to believe he was for real.

He cleared his throat and Stephanie felt like the mood had somehow shifted, like Bruce was gearing up to say something big - _honest_. She watched him swallow harshly, and frown deeply before finally opening his mouth. The words came out in stilted chunks, and his voice was just as angry and coarse as it had been the night at the docks but she thought of Cass, and of Damian and she did her best to listen to what he said instead of how he said it.

“Stephanie. I have...not dealt with my...with the…” He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep and slow breath before opening them again.

“I have been unhappy for a long time.” She watched him study the grain of the table, staring at it like it held some secret message she couldn’t read while she held her breath. “I’ve put my focus on other things. But there is...there is a lot in my life now, that matters to me. Many people that matter to me.

“I want to do better. For me and for them. For all of you.” His voice grew soft toward the end and Stephanie felt, for the first time in a _long_ time, real sympathy for Bruce, her chest felt tight with it.

She also, astonishingly, really believed him which just left her reeling in an entirely new way. She stared at him with wide eyes for she didn’t know how long until he finally looked up at her, eyes searching, and it snapped her out of the weird haze she’d settled in.

“That’s - I mean...I’m glad. That’s...good. But, how-” She swallowed harshly and her next words came out loud and incredulous, “This is because of what I said?” Bruce huffed a breath through his nose, the closest to a laugh she ever seemed to hear from him.

“You changed my perspective.” She tried to digest that, blinking a few times.

“I mean yeah, sure. Of course I did,” It was more to herself than to Bruce because as much as she wanted to believe that she’d given some sort of eye opening speech, all she really remembered about it was an overwhelming feeling of righteous indignation, a lot of yelling, and - embarrassingly - some crying at the end. That strange feeling that this whole thing must be a dream was beginning to come over her again and she did the only thing that seemed to make sense at that point. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and began scrolling through her text messages to Leslie’s. They didn’t talk a ton these days, not after everything went down, but Stephanie kept in contact at least and when she’d asked for the information Leslie had been quick to respond. There were five people on the list and they were all in the most recent text from the doc.

“I can text you the list.”

“That would be appreciated.” She gave a firm nod, feeling a little better with the focus of the idea.

“Sending it to you now.” She stood from the table as she copied and pasted the text in a new message. “There, sent.” She glanced up at him as she stuffed her phone back in her jacket pocket and grabbed the book still laying on top of her bag, slinging the strap over her shoulder. Bruce followed her lead, standing up from the table and taking her signal that the conversation was over. She didn’t think she could handle much of a continuation and she _knew_ Bruce couldn’t. 

“I’d offer to walk you to your next class-”

Stephanie barked a laugh, “Please, it’ll take weeks before everyone stops asking about this as it is.” Bruce frowned, the crease between his eyebrows deepening noticeably. 

“I…am sorry about that. I...may have miscalculated.” She waved it off, rolling her eyes at how oblivious the supposed worlds-greatest-detective could be. He could play an average guy part no problem, but he still had the face of a famous billionaire and had shown up at a college where he’d donated enough money to have the place named after him.

“Don’t worry about it, they all gotta talk about something, might as well be me. They’re probably all wondering if I’m like, your newest illegitimate child.”

Bruce coughed, loudly enough that she knew she’d caught him off guard with the comment and she smothered the laugh she wanted to give, feeling strange and...nice. She clutched her psychology book to her chest and suddenly had the though that - he had come here, to talk to her in person, gone out of his way to bring her a coffee and made himself greatly uncomfortable in order to have a conversation she was sure he did not want to have.

She could...she could return the gesture, at least a little bit. “I am, _sorry,_ for...screaming at you, so much. That - really wasn’t how I had planned it.”

Bruce gave a small shake of his head, “It’s alright Stephanie. It was important….” He gave a small frown again, “I’m sorry for dismissing you so….quickly.” 

Wow, this day was just full of surprises. He then stuffed his hands in his pockets, a gesture she didn’t think she’d really seen from him. It wasn’t the relaxed and loose posture of Brucie Wayne, Gotham socialite. It seemed more like a nervous sort of move you made when you didn’t know what to do with your hands.

She got the explicit feeling that she wasn’t looking at any sort of mask right then. This wasn’t Batman, and it wasn’t Brucie. This was Bruce, as himself, trying to do better. She couldn't help the soft smile that ticked up the side of her mouth.

“Have a nice day Stephanie.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for the coffee. I guess I’ll...see you around.” She picked up the travel mug from the table after she finally shuffled that last book into her bag.

“I hope so. It’s been pretty quiet around the manor lately.” Stephanie blinked up at him and snorted.

“Hope you don’t regret saying that.” She caught just the barest hint of a twitch to his mouth before she took a step back toward the building, making an awkward bit of eye contact because he was still just _standing_ there with his hands in his pockets before she spun on her heel and started the walk to her last class. He was so..._awkward_ as himself. She tried not to think it was endearing. She knew it wouldn’t be, not all the time, but it felt honest and that felt good.

She was halfway across campus when her phone chimed and she dug it back out of her pocket to find a reply to the message she’d just sent Bruce.

_September 23rd 1:08pm_

_Bruce Wayne to Stephanie Brown_

_Thank you._

_Stephanie:_  
_Yeah no prob!_

_______________________________

_September 23rd 1:10pm_

_Steph to: Dick, Cass, Tim_

_!!!!!! OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!_

_Tim:_  
_???_

_Dick:_  
_Eagerly awaiting a story_  
_here._

_Cass:_  
_?_

_Steph:_  
_I win!! I WIN you little_  
_shitheads! None of_  
_you will ever top this. _  
_EVER._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all folks! I hope you enjoyed. Please drop me a comment if you feel up to it :) And be on the lookout for the next fic in the series. I’m working on it for NaNoWriMo this year so it may not be until after November that I start posting it but it’s coming....
> 
> Also so sorry for any typos. I read through both chapters like 8 times before posting but I STILL find typos every time I look through it again....

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: Flashbacks, references to past character death (since reversed), —- these things are heavily referenced in the first 2k but not as much throughout.
> 
> Notes on Canon: What even is it? I have no idea. the canon for this fic/series is mixed as I find is rather common. Basically all canon pre New 52 is being used here, plus anything in New 52 that doesn’t contradict the established status quo before it came along (hence Barbara is Oracle, Stephanie is Batgirl, Cass is Black Bat). In my mind this takes place in a murky in between time a while after Damian is brought back from the Dead and Bruce has talked to Jason about not killing and he’s on sort of ok terms with the family, but it’s....questionable.
> 
> I’m really not 100% current with the comics anymore. I read older stuff on occasion but I haven’t kept up with anything new in the past couple years. But I love the whole Bat family and I have read a lot of fanfiction for them in recent times. I’m trying to familiarize myself with current canon if for no other reason than to be informed of what I’m leaving out and what I’m including lol. But be assured this is mostly about the characters and their relationships with each other and doesn’t rely heavily on plot from the comics. 
> 
> _______________
> 
> Title from The Moth & The Flame - Live While I Breathe


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